Through Closed Windows
by Monker
Summary: No UNCLE agent is trained to complete a mission at the expense of innocent lives. That said, when he heard the cry for help, it was his duty to look back. So look back is precisely what he did, and he paid dearly for it. COMPLETE
1. He looked back

**Title:** Through Closed Windows

**Author:** Monker

**Genre:** General/tragedy

**Rating:** T (PG13) for mild violence and injury

**Summery:** No UNCLE agent is trained to complete a mission at the expense of innocent lives. That said, when he heard the cry for help, it was his duty to look back. So look back is precisely what he did, and he paid dearly for it. Illya centered, with a bit of Napoleon too. Not slash.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Man from UNCLE, or any of the recognizable characters, places, or situations described in this story. This is entirely a work of fiction created only for the amusement of myself and my fellow UNCLE fans. I do not profit any money for this story, only the occasional review or two.

**Author's Note:** This is my first try at writing UNCLE fanfiction. It came to me rather randomly and I opted to write it down instead of letting it slip away. I hadn't planned on posting it because I'm in the process of writing a different story right now and I didn't want to get distracted from it. But, I have decided that I rather like this story so far so I wanted to share it. But, since I want to focus on my other story, this one is going to have to come in second priority. I will still try to be pretty faithful to update it, but this is just a warning in case my postings become scarcer towards the end. Nevertheless, I intend to finish this story, so I won't leave you out to dry.

Anyway, now on to the story! Deep breath in…deep breath out…here we go!

* * *

What exactly had it been? Hmm…such a vital thing to remember, and now his mind was drawing a complete blank. Come on now…what _was_ it? Then, finally, he remembered. It had been a number…42 to be exact. That's right! Now it was all coming back. He and his partner had successfully made it passed the guards and were in the process of running from the building when suddenly, he made the worst mistake of his life. He looked back.

It was an honest mistake. Anyone else would have made it. The bomb wasn't set to go off for another ten minutes; and…he could have sworn he heard a cry for help. Now of course, no UNCLE agent is trained to complete a mission at the expense of innocent lives. Maybe THRUSH could be so cruel, but the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement couldn't afford to sacrifice the peace of the average man for the sake of a mission. After all, it was that same sense of peace and stability that UNCLE strived and toiled so relentlessly to maintain for the innocent people of the world. That said, when he heard the cry for help, it was his duty to look back. So look back is precisely what he did, and he paid dearly for it.

He had slowed the speed of his race and turned to glance behind him. His eyes only had a matter of seconds to fall upon the main door of the structure. He just had enough time to register the final two digits of the building's address, 42. Then, he remembered the mammoth flash of light, the startling and extreme movement as the building exploded outward and upward…and that was the last thing Illya Kuryakin ever saw.

Thinking on it now, he was terribly remorseful that those trivial things had been the last his eyes ever beheld. Of course, he would prefer that he could go on seeing always. But if he absolutely had to lose his sight, he at least would have liked to have been looking at something he cared about for his last moments of sight. The door to that secret THRUSH laboratory, and the number 42 meant absolutely nothing to the Russian.

Why hadn't he just kept running? He was less likely to have been injured facing the opposite direction of the blast. But even then, if he_ had_ lost his sight, at least the last thing he would have seen would have been his partner and friend, Napoleon Solo, running just a few paces in front of him. Granted, he would have been staring at Napoleon's shoes most likely. But still, even those overpriced shoes meant more to Illya than the digits of some THRUSH hideout's address.

Illya sighed, frustrated, not for the first time, with himself. Now, the melancholy hum of his ceiling fan did nothing to lift the spirits of the injured UNCLE agent. He lay on his bed, in the quietness of his humble apartment, and stared deep into the blackness he now indwelt.

It was a different sort of darkness than he had been used to. It wasn't like the kind of darkness one gets just by closing one's eyes, because even then, one's eyes see the back of the lids. And even the darkness achieved by turning off the lights in a room without windows or doors wasn't quite as dark as _this_ darkness. This blackness seemed to be so total. It was so…infinite. Where every other form of darkness is simply the absence of light, _this_ darkness was the very absence of sight itself.

As Illya lay on his bed, he wondered what time it was. He sat up and was soon climbing out of his bed. He grabbed the stick-like cane from its place leaning against his nightstand and waved it in front of himself as he walked cautiously towards his window. Reaching out, the blonde haired man found his window and slipped his fingers through the blinds, feeling the glass on the other side. The window felt warm to the touch. _'It must be early morning,'_ the Russian thought, knowing that his bedroom window faced east.

The rumbling in his stomach confirmed the time of day. Illya did an about-face and made his way towards his kitchen. After a few moments, he had found all of the needed components for his breakfast and was soon making himself a simple meal of bread and milk. As he munched on his breakfast, Illya's mind turned back towards his boredom.

It had been two weeks since the explosion. Illya had spent the first week recuperating in the medical facilities of UNCLE. However, agitation over his newly found vulnerability and repressed emotions over his condition made him a very unpleasant patient. When the doctor suggested bed rest at home for Illya's remaining recuperation time, both the agent and his attending nurses all seemed relieved with the arrangement. So, for the past week, Illya had been sitting in his apartment, waiting for his wounds to heal.

His eyes had been damaged by some debris and the flesh around his eyes and down his right cheek had been badly burned. A wide sterile bandage had been wrapped around his eyes to hold the medicated gauze in place. Next week, Illya would revisit the doctors at medical, and his bandages would be removed. At that point, it would be determined whether or not his sight had been restored, and—more importantly to Illya—whether or not it still reached the standard of quality held by UNCLE so that he could get back to work.

But that wasn't for another week yet. Illya didn't know if he could stand one more week of doing nothing. Already, he had grown sick of hearing his own music records. No matter how smooth the jazz, it still gets old the hundredth time one hears it. For lack of anything better to do, he took to cleaning his sidearm on an average of three times a day. Ordinarily, whenever he needed time to rest after an injury, poisoning, or other near-death experience, he spent the time reading. He was fond of scientific and mathematical journals, occasionally turning to one of the classics when he craved good fiction. He also found particular satisfaction in poetry, especially works from poets who shared his native tongue of Russian. Obviously being unable to read, Illya took to other non-visual activities to amuse himself; like opening the window and listening to the birds, or his neighbors on the patio below. But those things were quick in losing their entertainment value. After two weeks of doing nothing, Illya Kuryakin was just about going insane.

Finally deciding that he couldn't take it anymore, Illya headed towards the bathroom, swinging his cane to and fro before him. It was only early morning. If he were quick in getting cleaned and dressed, he still had time to get to work.

To be continued...

* * *

There's chapter one. I hope you enjoyed it. This is my first attempt at writing for UNCLE, so feedback would be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading! Next chapter should be posted soon.

-Monker


	2. Half the fun is getting there

Thank you for your reviews. It's really great to know that people are reading this (and enjoying it!) So thanks for your comments and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Okay, deep breath in…deep breath out…here we go!

* * *

Getting dressed had been more complicated than Illya had anticipated. Matching one's clothes required a certain degree of visual consideration, and all Illya had to go off of was memories from two weeks ago of what laid where in his closet and wardrobe. He used a great deal of caution while shaving, careful to not leave any patches and, most importantly, not to slice himself with the invisible blade. The least time consuming parts had been tying his shoes and strapping on his shoulder holster because muscle memory performed those tasks easily for him. Subconscious of how he must look, Illya applied his sunglasses in an effort to disguise his bandages. Grabbing his wallet and keys, Illya was soon heading out his door, waving his cane in front of him to secure a safe path.

When he made it out of his building, Illya halted. The harsh smells and chaotic noises of busy New York City made Illya question his decision. How easy would it be for him to get lost…or worse, attacked? But confidence in his training, coupled with the dread of returning to that stuffy and boring apartment, quickly pushed those concerns from his mind and Illya strode forward onto the sidewalk.

The sound of motors and revolving tires told Illya that he was nearing the street; and a moment later, the blaring of a car horn told him he was _in_ the street. He quickly jumped backwards, connecting with another individual.

"Hey, watch where you're going, bud!" A cigar-bitten voice exclaimed roughly.

Illya regained his footing and listened as the car sped past only a few feet away, his palpitating heart trying to match the vehicle in velocity. He took a moment to straighten his jacket.

"That was pretty stupid," a small voice spoke from behind him.

He turned towards the voice which sounded quite young.

"Even I know not to do something as dumb as that," the voice continued.

"You're a very smart boy," the Russian observed. Then, getting an idea, he asked, "What is your name?"

"Elliot," the boy answered. "But I'm not supposed to tell that to strangers."

Illya gave a half smile, "Don't worry, Elliot, I don't want to hurt you. I would just like to ask you for some help."

"Okay," young Elliot answered. "I like you. Your accent's funny and your tie is cool."

"Excellent," answered the man. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. He reached into the billfold and retrieved some money. Then he knelt to one knee, guessing that he would be about eyelevel with Elliot now. "Come here," Illya gestured. He heard the light footfall as the young boy approached him. Illya held out the money. "Can you tell me how much this is?" he asked.

"Ten dollars," the small voice replied.

"Alright…" Illya said under his breath, folding the bill and placing it in his breast pocket. Then he reached into his pant pocket and grabbed a few loose coins. He held the coins in the palm of his hand and showed them to his assistant. "And how much is this?" he asked.

"Uhh…ten plus five is fifteen," the young boy counted quietly, "plus three…sixteen-seventeen-eighteen. Eighteen plus twenty-five…is…forty-four?"

Illya smiled, he could feel the child touch each of the coins in his hand softly as he focused on getting the math right. "Forty-three," the agent corrected.

"Oh," Elliot gave a small laugh, a nervous sort of laugh which the usually stoic Russian secretly found quite adorable. "Forty-three cents," the boy stated.

Thinking that wasn't quite a good amount, Illya leaned his cane against his chest and maneuvered the change to his other hand so that he could reach back into his pocket for more coins. He pulled them out and showed them to the boy. "How much is this?" he asked. Illya patiently waited while the child counted the money to come up with seventy-one cents. "That sounds good," the blonde haired man stated as he combined the two hand-fulls of change. "You're very good at arithmetic, Elliot."

Again, the boy laughed shyly. "Thanks," he said.

"You're quite welcome. And you've also been quite a help to me. So this is for you." He found the boy's hands and placed the coins in them.

"Gee! Thanks mister!" Elliot exclaimed excitedly.

"You're welcome, and you can tell your mother how you earned that money so that she doesn't worry where you got it. Now, do you think you could do one more thing for me?"

"Sure!" Elliot said happily.

"I need to wave down a cab. Can you help me do that?"

"Oh sure, that's easy!"

Illya rose to his feet once again and soon heard the sound of an automobile pulling up to the curb. He was slightly startled to feel a small hand grasp his and pull him forward. Elliot guided Illya's hand until it was touching the handle of the car door. "Thank you, Elliot," Illya said, getting into the cab.

"You're welcome. Bye mister!"

After giving the driver directions, the taxi was soon pulling away from the curb.

The driver tried to make polite conversation. "Have you ever seen a morning as beautiful as this? I'll tell you what, this has got to be my favorite time of year. Just goes to show that even in New York, the sky can be pretty."

A pang of remorse coursed through Illya, but he hid it. He wondered if he would ever see that New York sky again. The sense of selfishness that he had learned to suppress his whole life suddenly started to scream out at him, saying that it severely hoped he would see again. With much practice though, he had become skilled in silencing that voice, and his pessimistic nature repeated to himself once more, "Don't get your hopes up, Kuryakin."

The driver must have glanced at the rearview mirror. "Oh, wait a minute, you can't see," the man said, honestly noticing for the first time that his fare was sightless.

Illya wanted to say 'And evidently you can, O observant one,' but his self control kept him from it. Instead he simply replied, "No, I cannot."

The rest of the drive was rather quiet. Soon, Illya felt the car come to a stop.

"Del Floria's tailor shop," the driver announced, "this where you were headed?"

"Yes," Illya replied. He reached into his jacket's breast pocket and retrieved the ten dollar bill Elliot had helped him find. "Thank you," he said, reaching forward and paying the cab driver.

Illya climbed out of the car and then hesitated. Bending over, he spoke towards the driver. "Am I directly in front of the building?" he asked.

"Uhh, no, not really. The entrance is sort of forward and to your left a little."

Illya turned his head back towards the tailor shop. "Forward and to my left a little," he repeated quietly, trying to determine exactly what that entailed.

"I'll tell you what," spoke the driver, "close the door and hold on to the car through the window."

Illya did as instructed. Then he felt the cab creep forward slowly. Illya walked to keep pace with the car until he felt it come to a stop.

"There," said the cabbie, "Put you back against the side of the taxi, and you'll be standing directly in front of the store's entrance. Watch it though. Those look like steps leading down to it."

'_Watch it,'_ Illya repeated inwardly, _'interesting choice of words,'_ he mused. Then, bending over slightly, he said through the opened window, "Thank you, you've been very helpful. You can keep the change." He cautiously advanced, swinging his cane until he found the stairs and could gingerly descend them. Once he made it safely to the door, Illya heard the taxi cab pull away from the curb.

To be continued...

* * *

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please feel free to review!

--Monker


	3. The fashoins of Mr Kuryakin

Illya entered the tailor shop and let the door close quietly behind him. He waited for a few seconds before calling out, "Hello?"

"…Hello," came the tailor's somewhat surprised reply.

Illya just cleared his throat and asked, "dressing room free?"

The man hesitated before saying, "Oh, oh yes, of course!"

Illya found his way into the dressing room with an accomplished feeling bubbling in his chest. He was admittedly rather proud of himself for getting all the way to UNCLE Head Quarters without falling into a hole or something. Perhaps he wasn't as disabled as he had feared.

As soon as he entered HQ, Illya heard an unmistakable gasp from the receptionist.

"Mr. Kuryakin!" she exclaimed.

He gave a terse nod, "Hello Linda."

To her credit, she seemed to compose herself swiftly. "I-I thought you were still on sick leave," she said, keeping her voice from betraying the true surprise she felt.

"I'm feeling better," he stated simply, stepping forward and holding out his hand.

By reflex—and because she really couldn't argue with an enforcement agent anyway—she retrieved his number two clearance badge and stretched to place it in his not-quite-accurately-aimed hand. She watched with keen interest as he applied the badge familiarly to his pocket.

He was about to head through the door, down the large hall and towards his and Napoleon's shared office, when he hesitated. He seemed to question something before finally turning to face the receptionist once more. He rested both hands on his cane and said in a quiet tone, "Linda…are we alone?"

She arched an eyebrow. "Yes, Mr. Kuryakin," she said.

Again, he seemed to question himself on something. He absent mindedly wetted his lips before asking, "Could you…do me a favor, please?"

She smiled unabashedly, knowing he couldn't see the obvious amusement she was taking at his timidity. She kept the smile from reaching her voice, however, when she responded, "Of course. What can I do?"

He smirked nervously, "This is terribly embarrassing but…" he huffed in awkward frustration, "well, could you uh…look at me and tell me if something just looks…awful?"

She rose from her chair and moved around the large desk to get a better look at him, still utterly amused. "Like what exactly?" she asked.

"Anything," he replied, sensing her movements and turning to face her as she approached him. "You see, I was sort of guessing which items of clothing I was putting on this morning and…well, I'd just like to know if anything stands out as a mistake."

Linda took her time looking him up and down. It wasn't often that such a moment for visual appraisal of the handsome agent was presented. To be honest, she was rather surprised that he looked so nice. She had never tried coordinating an outfit with her eyes closed, but she could imagine the challenges it would bring. Frankly, Illya looked very well put together. It was rather impressive, to be honest. She straightened his tie a little, noticing how he jumped slightly at the unannounced contact. "Actually," she said, flattening the collar of his suit jacket before patting his shoulders, "You look very nice. The tie's a bit bold, I guess, but I kind of like it."

"My tie?" he asked, a hand reaching up to touch the accused article of clothing in ponder. "Which one is it?"

"Bright green and black diagonal stripes," Linda replied. She let loose a quiet laugh when she saw him visibly grimace.

"I thought I had donated that one," he said regretfully.

She smiled, "Well I like it. It's pretty daring."

He shrugged and then bowed his head slightly in gratitude. "Thank you, Linda."

As he turned to leave, she noticed something wrong with his belt and lunged forward to catch him by the arm.

Instinctively, he spun around and grabbed hold of her, ready to defend himself. When he heard Linda gasp, he realized it was she he grabbed and he loosened his grip. "I'm sorry," he said, "I couldn't tell it was you."

"No, no," Linda answered hastily. Inwardly, she refused to admit the quiet thrill that passed through her. "That was my fault. I should have warned you. I'm sorry I startled you."

He released her fully. "It's alright."

"Well," she said, pushing her hair behind her ear, "I just noticed that you didn't thread your belt all the way through the buckle. Here…" she readjusted the belt for him, being more cautious with her touch so as not to startle him again.

He reached down to feel the belt and then nodded, "Thank you, Linda. I appreciate that greatly."

"You're very welcome, Mr. Kuryakin," this time, she didn't even try to hide the smile from her voice.

And he must have heard it because he offered one of his rare smiles in return. When he exited the room, Linda continued to watch him as he walked down the hallway. He stayed close to the left wall, within an arm's length. He let his hand drag along the wall as he walked, waving the cane in front of him with his other hand. As he strode casually down the hall, every single person he passed stopped in their tracks and turned to watch him, stunned by his return.

Illya silently counted the doors he felt with his hand until he got to the sixth one on the left and went inside. When he exited the hall, he left eighteen people standing frozen down the length of it, watching him until he disappeared into his own office.

* * *

Napoleon Solo sat bent over his desk, scribbling notes on a report that was past due. Incidentally, he had rounded a corner just before the explosion two weeks ago, so had only sustained minute damages. However, the damages he would receive from Waverly if this report was another day late would be extensive! So he didn't even look up when he stated, "Just leave it on my desk."

"I haven't brought you your lunch, Napoleon," Illya stated, coming completely into the room and allowing the door to close behind him.

Napoleon glanced up, recognizing the voice. His pen froze and hovered above the paper as Napoleon was taken by surprise and rendered uncharacteristically speechless. He had planned on visiting his partner today, as he did everyday; but the head of Section Two never guessed his partner would turn the tables by visiting _him_. However, he didn't voice these thoughts, instead he stated coolly, "No…no, you wouldn't be. It's still too early for lunch."

Napoleon leaned forward to see over his desk in order to watch the swinging of Illya's cane as the other agent made his way towards his own work area. Still surprised to see him, Napoleon curiously observed as his partner navigated his way through the room. "Speaking of being early…" the dark haired man began, "isn't your return to work a tad…premature?"

Illya found his chair and sat in it, sighing slightly as he felt is body slip into a simple variation of home. He leaned forward and tried to find a place to lean his cane where it wouldn't fall over. "Not by my account," he answered, "my leave time was intended for recuperative purposes. I feel adequately recuperated. Besides, I was anxious to make some use of my time."

Napoleon glanced quizzically towards the door. "Did you drive here?" It was a stupid question, but he was still so startled to see his partner that he wasn't thinking quite straight.

Illya reclined in his seat with a small breath of laughter, "My eyesight was damaged, Napoleon, not my intelligence. I took a cab."

Napoleon nodded absently. He took the silence as an opportunity to scrutinize the state of his friend. He was pleased to find that Illya looked terribly well off. It was a nice change to see him fully dressed instead of lounging about in a bathrobe as he had been for the past few days. The blonde Russian had also forgone the light beard he had been growing and was now cleanly shaven. Excluding the bandages around his eyes and the sunglasses trying to conceal them, Illya was the very image of Napoleon's old partner. Except, perhaps, for one other small detail…

"Nice tie," the American joked.

Illya's hand felt and patted the hanging tie. "It was a mistake," he confessed. "I meant to grab the black one."

Napoleon examined the tie from afar, "I don't know. I think you pull it off nicely."

"Yeah, well, I'd rather be pulling off a standard black one," Illya commented.

Napoleon chuckled. "Here," he said, loosening his own tie, which just so happened to be black. "Trade me." Napoleon threw his tie towards his friend.

Illya jumped slightly when he felt the fabric hit his chest. He felt around until he had the slim article of clothing in his hands. Soon, both agents had successfully swapped ties. When Illya was through tying his, he turned towards his partner and asked, "Straight?"

"As the tower of pisa," Napoleon responded. "Here, let me," he moved to mend the wreckage.

Illya allowed his partner to straighten his tie, despite the fact that it felt somehow degrading. It was as if he were a little boy again, with his mother helping him dress in the morning. He didn't like the feeling of being "taken care of", but he hardly wanted to walk around in public while looking a shambles. So he consented quietly to his friend's attentions, ignoring the feeling of dependency he felt.

At that moment Illya inclined his head gently, hearing someone approach from behind the door.

When the door swooshed open, Napoleon turned and greeted the visitor. "Ah, Camille," he said with a predatory smile even a blind man could recognize. "You're looking lovely today. I must say, I like you in blue."

The woman smiled, "Why, thank you Mr. Solo."

Illya sat quietly and waited, knowing the routine exchange of silent smiles and flirtatious glances was taking place. The quiet and periodic giggles confirmed his suspicions. Then he heard the lady clear her throat.

"Well, Mr. Waverly would like to see you in his office, Mr. Solo," the girl finally said.

"Well, thank you for informing me, Miss Sutton."

"You're quite welcome, Mr. Solo."

Napoleon waved goodbye with his fingers, "Buh-bye, Miss Sutton."

She giggled again, "Goodbye, Mr. Solo."

Under his bandages, Illya rolled his eyes. After the sound of the door closing, Illya could hear Napoleon as he turned to face him once more.

"Well tovarich, I hope you don't mind if I miss my usual visiting time with you today. You've clearly initiated that already, and I really do think that this evening…" his voice sounded more distant as he turned to look towards the door again, "I shall be otherwise engaged."

"Yes, initiating something of your own, no doubt," the Russian jabbed.

"Hmm, jealousy will get you nowhere, dear Illya." As he spoke, Napoleon returned to his desk and finished some last minute details on his report. He lifted the page and blew on the drying ink. "I've got to go see Waverly. Will you be okay 'til I get back?" he asked, shooting a concerned glance towards his friend.

"Sure, I'll be fine. You go on."

Napoleon didn't like the idea of leaving his injured friend alone, but he really didn't have time to argue. He gathered the rest of the file and then moved to leave the office. At the door, he turned back towards his partner, "You're going to stay put, right? You won't try and go anywhere?"

"Napoleon, _go_! I'll be alright," Illya urged.

With an apprehensive sigh, Napoleon left and made his way towards Waverly's office.

To be continued…

* * *

There it is, I hope you liked it! Let me know what you think.

--Monker


	4. Tattletale Solo

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Napoleon said, entering the office of Number One of Section One and closing the door behind him.

"That I did, Mr. Solo. Do you have that report for me?" Alexander Waverly asked.

"Yes sir." Napoleon advanced towards the desk and handed the yellow file to his chief. "Here it is."

The older man took it, his bushy eyebrows rising to read the label on the front. "Very good. I trust all the proceedings are adequately detailed, Mr. Solo; not like your last report."

Napoleon looked properly chastised, "Yes sir. Everything has been properly included, I assure you."

"Good. And I shall have you know, Mr. Solo, your tardiness in this matter has not gone unnoticed. However, considering the resent state of your partner, I am pardoning your breech in protocol; but only for these unique circumstances. Do not be misled to believe you can count on such generosity in the future."

"I understand, sir."

"Good. You're dismissed." The man turned his attention away from Napoleon and back onto something resting on his desk.

But Napoleon didn't leave the office right away. He stayed and watched Waverly for a few moments. He wondered if Waverly already knew Illya was at work, and if he had approved it. It was possible that the Russian had come in to work on his own volition, not consulting Mr. Waverly on the subject at all. In fact, knowing Illya, Napoleon was almost certain this was exactly what happened. So now the question was, should Napoleon inform Mr. Waverly of Illya's presence or should he just let his partner go on like he would any other day? Before Napoleon had made up his mind, the old man's eyes lifted from the file and stared squarely into his own.

"Was there something else, Mr. Solo?"

Well, he had to say something now. "Oh, nothing too important, sir. Just a small matter of personnel."

"Yes? What kind of matter?" Waverly started busily flipping through some loose pages.

"Well…" now he was committed. He had to tell Waverly about it now. "Well," he began again, "were you aware of Illya's return, sir?"

Picking up a pen, the old man started signing his name on the appropriate pages. "Return to where, Mr. Solo?"

"To here, sir. Illya's come back to work today."

Waverly looked up. "Mr. Kuryakin is here at Head Quarters? I wasn't aware medical had approved his bill of health."

Napoleon uncomfortably shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I'm, uh, not sure that they have, sir. But he's come to work all the same."

"Well, that's absurd," the chief scoffed, "He must be returned home at once. We cannot have a blind man bumping his way about the halls while there are people trying to get work accomplished."

Immediately, Napoleon regretted mentioning it. He felt like a tattletale, snitching on Illya to the principal. Obviously, his poor friend was getting bored out of his mind stuck in his apartment and he seemed desperate for something to do. Napoleon hated the thought of dashing his hopes and making him go all the way back home again. Out of loyalty to his friend, Napoleon spoke up, "Actually sir, I was wondering if we couldn't find something for Illya to do; I mean, so long as he's here. It seems an extra pair of hands is always a nice thing to have around the place."

"Mr. Solo, your friend is blind. This is a highly organized, extremely detail-sensitive environment. Surely you can realize how impossible it would be for Mr. Kuryakin to function in such an atmosphere."

"It wouldn't be the first time Illya's defied the odds, sir. He navigated his way to Head Quarters entirely on his own. His journey here alone should be proof enough of his competence, even despite his current state. Surely there is _something_ he can do around here to help."

Waverly looked pensively at his desk. "It was rather resourceful of him to make it all the way here, I suppose. And it's clear you place a great deal of confidence in his abilities. Very well, Mr. Solo. If you want him here, you shall have him. But I leave it to you to find appropriate work for him. I don't want operations to suffer because of his disability, so be judicious in your choice of tasks for him."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Napoleon said, relieved with his chief's decision. Turning on his heel, he headed out of the office.

* * *

Surprisingly enough, Illya had actually stayed in the office the whole time Napoleon was away. He just sat in his desk-chair and listened to the seconds tick by; essentially, the very same thing he was doing back home. And yet, Illya was grateful for the change of scenery. Though his eyes could not suggest any difference between the two environments, his other senses, which had become heightened the past two weeks, picked up on the subtle differences keenly. The scents in each respective room were drastically different, though each held a particular sense of familiarity to the Russian. His home had a deep, wooden sort of smell accented by hints of vodka and gunpowder. The office that he shared with Napoleon smelt of paper, ink, cologne and a faint layer of dust. He regarded each blend of smells with a certain air of comfort; a comfort that allowed his mind to reach its rare and still rather mild state of relaxation…temporarily free of care or worry regarding danger.

His hearing was also growing increasingly sharp. Illya could listen to the coming and going of people in the hallway and determine precisely when they passed his door. And, depending on the tone of the footsteps, he fancied he could guess whether it was a male or female passing. In some cases, he was even certain he could tell the person's very identity based on the style and pace of their stride. That said, he recognized immediately the sound of Napoleon's approaching footsteps. Illya hurriedly fumbled his way to a familiar drawer to retrieve a prop.

When Napoleon entered the office, he saw Illya reclining in his desk-chair, a book opened in his hand, apparently staring at the pages. Napoleon smirked, "Very funny."

Illya snapped the book closed with a faint smile, "Yes, I thought it was."

Napoleon nodded towards the door, though the gesture obviously went unnoticed. "Come on," he said.

The face of the pessimistic agent fell softly. "I'm to go home," he stated dolefully.

Seeing the dread on his partner's face pulled at something within Napoleon. He was indeed grateful that Waverly had changed his mind. "No," he answered, "You're to get to work right away."

Illya's brow furrowed and he straightened in his seat. "Doing what?" he asked.

"Well, if you'd follow me instead of question me, I'd be able to show you. Now, come on!"

Without needing further stimulation, Illya quickly rose from his chair, retrieved his cane, and followed Napoleon out the door.

To be continued…

* * *

I know it was short, but I still hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please feel free to review!

--Monker


	5. Enforcement agent for hire

The two agents strode through the maze of hallways with a steady tempo. Illya's hand was placed on Napoleons shoulder, and the senior agent guided the Russian by those means. Illya's steps were confident and firm. He fully trusted Napoleon's guidance, so he didn't second guess a single step as they marched towards the unknown location.

Finally, Napoleon turned to enter one of the rooms attached to the hallway. "Here we are!" Napoleon announced. Then he detached his friend's hand from his shoulder saying, "If you would excuse me for a moment, I need to have a word with the natives."

Illya maintained his position, now far too disoriented to be able to tell where he was or what was around him. He noticed the sound of the room firstly. Most rooms have a sort of hollow sound, at least to some degree. But this room sounded very, very full; with what exactly, he couldn't tell. He heard distant voices softly murmur and he wondered if it was about him. He also heard almost a constant stream of mechanical noises. Nondescript zips and tappings also flooded the air. Illya recognized these sounds, but could not instinctively identify them just yet.

Illya let his nose sniff the air. He noticed that this room smelt similar to his office, only all of the scents, save that of the cologne, seemed to be magnified here. He smelt much paper and ink. The room lacked the sterile and cold sort of smell, so at least he could be certain he wasn't in the lab. That was good to know. In the lab, if he bumped into something, or knocked the wrong thing over, the repercussions could be…well…deadly. But this room smelt more of paper and less of chemicals. Illya was now convinced it was quite a large and it also had a distinctly feminine fragrance. He guessed there were probably at least four different candles lit in the room. He had been in this room before, and now Illya recognized it.

Soon, he heard his partner rejoin him. "Records keeping?" the Russian guessed.

Napoleon seemed genuinely impressed, but not necessarily surprised by Illya's perspicacity. "Very good," he said, "Yes, we are indeed in Records. With me is Miss Kelly Kauola."

Illya extended his hand, mentally trying to recall an image of the lady in question so that he could put a face with a voice. He felt her grasp and shake his hand politely. From the angle of the hand, he guessed she had to be shorter than himself. From the girth of the hand, he also concluded that she must be a bit stout. This information was all helpful, but he really couldn't make an identification until he heard her voice.

Kelly smiled up at the bandaged agent. "Welcome to Records, Mr. Kuryakin," she said cheerfully.

Ahh, now he recognized her. Of course. She was the small Hawaiian woman with the cute voice and the perky nose. Illya liked her. He was always impressed by her ability to maintain her ethnic individuality amongst all these white Americans. Of course, he realized that the Hawaiian Islands were a part of the United States now, but Kelly was still distinctly tropical, even in the middle of New York. She was proud of her heritage and never tried to hide it. Illya envied her that freedom. If he had been as openly Russian as she was openly Hawaiian, it would not go as well for him in that sensitive country. He smiled politely at her in recognition, "Miss Kauola," he greeted.

"Miss Kelly here says she has a few things she'd like for you to help with," Napoleon said, careful with his phrasing so that Illya wouldn't feel he was being handed over to a babysitter.

"Yes," Kelly said, "If you would please come with me, Mr. Kuryakin…"

Illya soon felt the small woman grabbing hold of his arm and pulling him lightly forward. As Illya was escorted farther into the room he heard his partner give a quiet farewell of, "Have fun."

Kelly stopped walking and said towards the room, "Girls, this is Mr. Kuryakin of Section Two. He's going to be helping us today."

Illya heard a small chorus of "Hi's" and "Hey there's", and a fair amount of girlish giggling. Then he heard one voice ask, "How long can we keep him?" and then the rest of the girls erupted in light squeals of laughter. Illya inwardly winced, these girls sounded much too young and far too immature for his taste.

Kelly's voice changed to exhibit a "no nonsense" tone as she replied, "He's been kind enough to stay for the remainder of the workday. Anything after that is still uncertain. But he's to be treated respectably as your superior. Remember, he is an enforcement agent from Section Two and shall be treated with the according degree of courtesy."

Illya heard several faint and only slightly convincing voices say, "Yes, ma'am."

Soon, Kelly's pressure returned to Illya's arm and she gently spurred him forward again. "I do apologize," she said quietly. "They are good at their work, but unfortunately, most of their time is spent reading and typing in various folders. They regrettably get a little overexcited when men come to visit; especially men as attractive as yourself."

Illya hardly had time to respond to this before Kelly was talking again.

"Now," she said, quickly changing the subject, "Mr. Kuryakin, as I'm sure you know, we at UNCLE take to tape recording the interviews and interrogations we conduct; and we keep those tapes on record."

Illya nodded, trying to memorize their path through the room in case he had to find his way back again.

"Well, in an effort to cut costs, over the past few months, we have been reusing old tapes from affairs long since past and have been taping over them with our new interviews. Now, the trouble is, the labels on the existing tapes no longer apply to their content. We need you to listen to the tapes and relabel them accordingly. Do you think you're up to that?"

"I don't see why not," the agent stated.

"Good!"

Illya felt himself being meticulously guided to stand in front of something. Then he heard Kelly's voice say, "There you are, Mr. Kuryakin. You can sit now. There's a chair under you." He cautiously sat down and then listened to further instruction.

"At the beginning of each tape, the interrogating agent should state his name, the name of the person or persons being interrogated, the case number, and then the date. All you need to write down is the case number and the date. And write it on these labels." She moved his hands to rest atop the stack of sticky labels on the desk in front of him. "Then you peel it off, and stick it on the front of the tape." Kelly placed one of the small tapes in his hand and let him fell all around it until he could picture it in his head. "Stick it right…here…" She manipulated his hand into the proper shape and then rubbed his fingers across the existing, incorrect label.

Illya nodded thoughtfully, feeling around the desk and creating a mental image of his workplace.

She explained how to use the tape player machine and where he could put the tapes after he had labeled them. With every piece of instruction, Kelly directed his hands so that he could "see" what she meant. She was extremely helpful.

"Do you have any questions?" she asked at last.

"Will I be working here alone?" He didn't like the idea of being abandoned in an office with which he was unfamiliar, without the ability to ask someone for assistance if he needed it. But at the same time, he dreaded being surrounded by any of those little girls if that were his only other option.

"Yes," Kelly answered. "The girls are in the outer office where we do all of the daily work and printing. You are in the inner office where long-term files are stored and altered. My private office is through a door directly behind where your desk is. If you'd feel more comfortable, I could leave my office door opened so I could hear you if you called for me."

Yes, Illya liked this woman very much. He nodded and squared his shoulders, "That would be helpful, thank you."

"No trouble at all."

As he listened to her leave, he counted the number of steps before he heard her door open. Four strides…that would probably be about three strides to Illya. Then, he turned his attention to his desk and diligently set about completing his assignment.

* * *

**Author's Note:** For all of you M*A*S*H* fans out there, yes, I _did_ base the Kelly character off of Nurse Kelly from MASH. I always loved that character and thought that she didn't get highlighted as much as she deserved. So this was my way of making up for that.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Leave a comment if you'd like!

--Monker


	6. Exceeding expectations

When he was finished with his work, Napoleon glanced at the clock. It was nearing the end of the day. UNCLE should be winding down now and all of the daytime personnel should be heading home pretty soon. He took that as his cue to go and retrieve his partner from Records. After tidying up his desk, he turned and was quickly out the door.

When he entered the busy records room, he received a handful of girlish smiles and gleaming eyes. "Hello, girls," he greeted subtly.

The grins broadened and a few of them said, "Hello, Mr. Solo."

He shared with them his famous smile and they all but swooned. "Is, uh, Miss. Kauola here?" he asked.

The brunette closest to him nodded towards a doorway behind her. "She's in the back room. I'll take you to her," she said.

"How very kind of you," Napoleon replied, following the young woman's lead.

"I suppose you're here to take him away," the girl said as they walked.

Napoleon glanced at her, surprised at the level of gloom detectable in her statement. "Well, it is about closing time."

She sighed forlornly, "I suppose. We did enjoy having him here though, even if he was scared of us."

Napoleon laughed inwardly. It was amusing to think of his fearless partner being scared of a few harmless, albeit oppressive, girls. He could just envision their various advances and Illya's polite, but firm dismissals. Yes, that was very believable.

"It's too bad he has to go," she continued. Suddenly, her eyes lit up with hope, "Do you think you'll bring him back again tomorrow?"

He pursed his lips thoughtfully and tilted his head slightly to the side. "I suppose it's possible. We'll see."

"I sure hope so. He's so cute."

Napoleon cocked an eyebrow in question and turned to look at her with a certain level of skepticism.

The girl didn't seem to notice, "He's so moody and…foreign." She all but shivered in childish delight.

'_What's so special about that?'_ Napoleon wondered.

"Say! Do you know what color his eyes are? Me and the girls have been arguing about it _all_ day. We even tried to look it up, but his personnel file is classified."

"I really wouldn't know," Napoleon lied. Of course he knew what color his partner's eyes were. But at that moment, Napoleon decided that these girls were a bit too creepy to encourage. He took back all of the jokes he had mentally made about his partner a few moments ago. Napoleon thought, if the roles were reversed, surely he would be frightened of these girls too. He was grateful when he was finally deposited into the care of Miss Kauola.

"I assume you've come for Mr. Kuryakin?" Kelly asked.

"Yes," he answered, eyes searching around the room for his partner. "How is he?" Napoleon asked.

"See for yourself." She gestured with her arm through a doorway.

Napoleon walked forward a few steps and craned his neck until he saw his friend. Illya was sitting at a desk, head bowed slightly and wearing headphones. In his hand, he held a pen and a half-used sheet of sticky labels. He sat that way for a few seconds before scribbling something down onto the paper. Napoleon turned back to look at Kelly. "How's he been doing?" he asked.

She nodded encouragingly, "For the most part, very well. He's had a couple of mistakes; writing too big to where the words didn't all fit on the label, sticking a few of them upside down. If it was ever something he could help, I'd only have to correct him once and he would never make the same mistake again."

Napoleon nodded, "That sounds like Illya," he said, somehow placing a new level of pride in his partner. He knew how hard it was for Illya to be so disabled (for lack of a better word). The Russian had never before lacked confidence in his own abilities when it came to anything. Now, he was faced with the unchangeable fact that he was finally vulnerable in this very real way. It damaged his pride and humbled his ego, discouraging him at first; but today had been proof that the agent was still not beaten. He would not be deemed useless. He would now fight and strive ten times harder than he ever did, and if Napoleon knew anything about Illya Kuryakin, he was convinced that the man would rise above it all and conquer the expectations the rest of the world was so feeble in lacking.

As if noticing Napoleon's apparent train of thought, Kelly commented, "He's terribly committed you know. I haven't seen him take a break since lunch."

The enforcement agent was snatched from his thoughts when he heard this news. He glanced at his watch and a scowl fell over his face. If that were true, then Illya would have been working nonstop for at least six hours. Then Napoleon sighed and nodded again, "Yep…that sounds like Illya too. Then I'd say that's my cue to make sure he gets home."

Napoleon was about to head in Illya's direction when he paused and then turned back to face Kelly, "So, would you say he's been helpful?"

"Oh, yes! Very helpful! I think he's probably cut down on the number of tapes by at least half since he got here."

Napoleon looked thoughtful, "So could he come back again tomorrow?"

"If he'd like to," she nodded. "He's certainly welcome here."

"Good," Napoleon said absently. Records had been the fourth place he had looked to find a job for Illya. He didn't know how many other departments would be able to use a blind man's labor. If Illya out-worked his welcome in this department, Napoleon feared he would be hard pressed to find him another suitable assignment. _'Oh well. It's only temporary,'_ Napoleon told himself. _'At the end of the week, Illya will go see the doctor again and…'_ the agent gulped, then he forced his mind's voice to say, _'…and then he will be reinstated.'_ Napoleon took in a deep breath, forcing that thought to plant itself confidently in his mind. Somewhere deep within him though, some ruthless voice continued to nag at Napoleon, trying to convince him that Illya was a lost cause. But nevertheless, Napoleon stubbornly kept himself from believing it. He turned and headed purposefully towards his partner.

Illya still had the headphones on so he couldn't hear his friend approach. He did, however, smell the familiar cologne. He removed the headgear and inclined his head. He listened, but the brief footsteps halted. "Napoleon?" he inquired.

The dark-haired agent silently turned and shared a perplexed expression with Kelly who was observing from the doorway. Turning back to his partner, Napoleon stated, "You're going to have to tell me how you did that."

Illya chuckled slightly, saying, "I'm a spy, remember? We like to keep secrets."

Napoleon nodded with a sly smile, "You ready to go?"

"Not quite. I still have a few more tapes to finish." Illya placed his hand on the desk and felt around for the stack of remaining tapes.

"Let me rephrase that: you _are_ ready to go. Those will be here when you get back."

"Back?"

"Yes…that is, if you're up for work again tomorrow. They could still use your help here."

Inwardly, Illya was relieved. Even though the work was tedious and the atmosphere a bit lonely, he was still grateful for the change in routine. He didn't want to go back to just sitting alone in his apartment, waiting for Napoleon to visit after he'd been released from work. Now, Illya actually had something to do. He could at least put himself to some good use. He was relieved to hear that his services here were still needed. Nodding, he stated, "In that case, just give me a moment to tidy up…"

Knowing that the Russian would never leave a desk if it were messy, Napoleon stepped in and helped his partner. Within a few minutes, Illya's workplace was clean and ready for business to commence tomorrow morning. After that, with hand on shoulder and cane dangling loosely at Illya's side, the pair set forward out of the record's department...much to the dismay of the young ladies left behind.

To be continued…


	7. Half the fun is getting back

Illya was quite through most of the drive home. Napoleon spent the time flashing periodic glances at his partner when traffic afforded him the opportunities. He hated to admit it, but he was terribly worried about the other agent. Illya had the bad habit of disregarding his personal safety when it came to getting a job done. Napoleon feared that this character trait in his partner went undamaged in the explosion, and that the Russian would still throw himself into dangerous situations without a second thought. It was one thing for the agent to charge ahead with his sight still intact, but now that he was effectively rendered blind, Illya was less and less likely to be able to sufficiently protect himself from an attack. With Illya now feeling empowered enough to roam the streets of New York alone, there was no telling what sort of advantages THRUSH might be swayed to take. Something inside Napoleon wished UNCLE would have just kept the agent confined to medical. At least that way Illya would be safe from doing anything _too_ stupid.

But, at the same time, Napoleon knew how talented and capable his partner was. Illya Kuryakin had been smashed, shot, drowned, and blown up dozens of times before and had always seemed to work through it and pull out of it in the end. Why should this injury be any different? When the chips were down, there was not a soul on earth Napoleon trusted more to have his back than Illya. How hypocritical would it be, then, if Napoleon failed to have his friend's back through this one ordeal that was so difficult for Illya? He should be supportive of his friend. If the agent felt he was ready to go back to work, who was Napoleon to second guess his partner's judgment? After all, the man was nothing if not a critical thinker.

Pulling up beside the apartment complex, Napoleon announced, "Home sweet home."

Illya turned his head towards his window, trying to envision the building. "Your side or mine?" he asked.

"Yours."

Illya nodded and confidently opened his car door. He exited the car saying, "Thanks for the ride."

Napoleon leaned over into the passenger's seat so he could be heard. "I'll pick you up tomorrow then?"

"That would be helpful, yes."

"Fine," Napoleon nodded, "See you then!" As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Napoleon regretted them.

Illya pinched his lips together in a repressed grimace. He simply nodded curtly. "Yes," he said pessimistically, "_see_ you then."

Napoleon shook his head in self punishment, trying to retract the words, "Illya-"

The other agent held up a hand in rebuttal. Then with a slight wave of that hand he said, "Forget it, Napoleon. I know that's not what you meant." Then he closed the car door and tried to look confident as he made his way towards his apartment building. His cane hit something solid at about shin level. Illya coolly sidestepped to avoid the object and was soon walking through to main entrance. He noticed that Napoleon didn't pull away from the curb right away but waited until after Illya had successfully entered the building.

Illya walked through the quiet lobby. No one was ever in the lobby except to pass through, yet there were always chairs and coffee tables sitting around just in case. Illya always thought that was odd. Why spend money on furniture pieces no one ever used? It was another strange American custom which the Russian still had yet to understand. He chuckled to himself. It seemed as though volumes could be filled with such confounding differences between the two cultures.

He felt along with his cane until he was sure he was facing the elevators. He didn't prefer to use elevators; ambushes were too easily achieved in them. But the stairwell might be too dangerous an obstacle to face right now. There were pros and cons to each possibility. For a long time, he stood and debated his options.

As he was deliberating, his breath caught in his throat when he heard the unmistakable sound of the building entrance opening…and closing. He waited, as still as a statue, and his ears strained to pick up any signs of movement. There were none. Whoever just entered was standing in the same place, presumably right by the door. That was odd. No one ever just stood in the lobby.

Illya knew something was wrong, but what could he do? His mind started spinning to define the crisis. The first question would be, who is this person? A friend would have identified themselves by now. An innocent bystander would have continued along their way, unless something shocking or threatening stopped them in their tracks. Perhaps that was possible, but it was hardly probable. However, if it were a foe, he could be holding that single position for any number of reasons. He could be taking photographs of Illya for some reason. Or he might be meticulously aiming some new and sensitive weapon. Illya could be a sitting duck at that very moment.

The agent and the stranger stood frozen in silence. Illya's hand slowly moved upward to reach inside his jacket and grasp the concealed weapon underneath. Illya didn't pull the gun forth, but just held it, waiting for the stranger to make a sound and betray his location…but he didn't.

More time ticked by and neither person made any further move. Then…Illya heard the door open…and close again. With a stern expression, Illya's mind raced to decode the meaning of the sound. It was a puzzling and certainly surprising change of events. Either, the second opening and closing of the door meant that the stranger had left the building, or had been joined by a _second_ intruder. If the latter were true, then both mysterious persons were continuing to be extremely quiet, not moving a muscle. If the former scenario were true, then Illya had to wonder what cynical meaning could possibly be behind such a strange encounter. But…Illya's mind slammed on the brakes…_both_ scenarios could be false, and the stranger _could_ still be in the room, simply opening and closing the door just to confuse Illya.

The agent's hand continued to grasp the gun firmly as he called, "Hello?"

…No answer.

"Someone there?" Despite his heightened sense of danger, Illya's voice was strong and steady as it reached into the darkness for an answer.

Still, the room made no reply. Illya tried to detect any sign of another person in the vicinity. Did the room feel fuller of substance? No…not particularly. He listened to the air circulating through the lobby. If someone were in there, they were even breathing quietly because the agent's trained ears couldn't make out any distinctively human noises.

Perhaps whoever it was just left. Illya was not settled by this conclusion, but he had no other choice but to move on.

He opted for the stairs, knowing that there were few things more ill-advised for him to do at the moment than to walk into a small enclosed space without being able to provide much security for himself. At least on the stairs he would have more room to maneuver and possibly fight. He turned and found the entrance to the stair case. Illya kept his hand on the handrails and carefully counted each landing he reached. When he had made it up two flights, Illya was hardly surprised when he heard the entrance to the staircase open and close again. Shortly thereafter, slow, calm steps started to echo through the stairwell. Illya was being followed.

He coolly made his way up the last flight of stairs and then entered into the connecting hallway. Now comfortable with his surroundings and sure of his way, Illya's march down the hall was swift as he tried to round the first corner before whoever was following him made it out of the stairwell. He turned left down a second hallway, then he broke into a near trot, passing the entrance to his apartment and continuing on until he turned down a third hallway.

Illya swerved and dodged through a maze of hallways, never once losing his bearings or forgetting his path. He kept walking until he stopped hearing the footsteps behind him. Then he used the northern staircase to go down a level. He copied his path from the above floor only in reverse, knowing that the layout of both levels was identical.

Then, quietly and cautiously, he entered the first staircase again. Listening carefully, Illya heard no signs of anyone else in the stairwell. After a few minutes of waiting, just to be sure, Illya finally started to ascend the stairs a second time.

Confident he had lost his follower, Illya walked calmly down his hallway, dragging his hand along to wall to count the doorframes. He reached into his pocket when he arrived at his apartment, and then, he froze. It was faint, it was almost undetectable, but it was undoubtedly there nonetheless. Illya heard a breath. Someone was in that hallway with him.

Without hesitation, Illya smoothly grabbed his weapon and spun around, angling the gun at precisely where he had heard the breath. "Who are you?" he demanded.

The stranger cleared his throat. "Pretty good aim for a blind guy," he said.

Illya immediately lowered his gun, a look of exasperation on his face. "Napoleon, you idiot. I could have killed you."

"And ruin this suit? Even you wouldn't dare," the suave agent replied.

Illya sighed and holstered his weapon.

Napoleon was leaning coolly against the wall. With a jerk of the shoulder, he shoved himself off of the wall and took a step towards Illya. "Where have you been, anyway?" he asked, "I've been waiting for about five minutes now."

Illya finally retrieved his keys as he answered, "I was being followed and-" at that moment, everything started to click. Even with his eyes concealed, the realization was evident on Illya's face. He heard his partner give a guilty sigh that confirmed his suspicions. Illya leaned his head to one side in disappointment, "Oh Napoleon…" he chided with mild frustration.

"You know you're not as easy to tail as you used to be. How can that be?"

Illya turned and unlocked his door, "Believe it or not Napoleon, when it comes to the art of detection, some senses are even more reliable than that of sight." With that, he shoved the heavy door open and both agents entered the apartment.

* * *

I really liked writing this chapter! Illya's being a bit paranoid and somehow I find that really amusing! I had fun trying to write this, keeping Illya's UNCLE intuition intact while forbidding him from seeing the possible danger. It was fun and I hope you enjoyed reading it!

-Monker


	8. Company

**Author's Note:** Okay friends, read this one slowly because I'm afraid it will have to last you a little while. I am going out of town soon and won't be able to post for a while. So please read this and enjoy it. I do intend to bring this story to a conclusion, but you may need to be patient with me. I will pick it right back up again as soon as possible, I promise. But please feel free to leave a comment and let me know what you think so far! I would love to hear from you!

Okay, deep breath in...deep breath out...here we go!

* * *

Illya entered his apartment and left the door open, knowing his partner would follow behind him. "What are you doing here anyway?" he asked, locating a small table with his cane and depositing his wallet, keys and sunglasses atop it. "I thought you had a rendezvous with Miss 'Lovely-in-blue' Sutton."

"Well, there's a funny thing about girls, tovarich," Napoleon observed as he entered the familiar apartment, flipping on the light switch the way his friend neglected to do. "They're like fruit, you see."

Illya removed his jacket and draped it over his arm. "What on earth is that supposed to mean?" he asked, undoing his tie. He pulled it from around his neck and then held it in front of him, clenching it in a fist. "Where are you?" he asked simply.

Napoleon clapped his hands twice and then prepared himself for the catch.

Illya returned the neck tie to his partner with a well aimed toss. "Thanks for that, by the way," he mumbled.

"Don't mention it," Napoleon replied in a low tone. Then raising his voice, he addressed Illya's earlier question, "It means, dear Illya, that women—like fruit—require time to ripen. If you pick them too early, you do yourself a disfavor. You must give them time to grow and mature into the sweet, ripe fruit you want them to be."

Illya shook his head in dismay at his friend's foolish interpretation of women. He wondered how it was that so many women seemed to be so willing to fall victim to Napoleon's strange version of charm. He turned away from his partner, heading into the main living area. "It's fortunate for you that women don't appear to use the same method of 'harvesting'. Otherwise, they'd be waiting on you for an eternity," he muttered in a low voice, but purposely loud enough for his friend to hear.

Napoleon cocked his head, following his partner into the living room. "What was that?" he asked.

"Forget it," Illya replied with a smug smile. "It still doesn't explain what you're doing _here_ instead of at your own house."

Napoleon walked further into the living space. The apartment was small and had a minimal amount of furnishings. It was another glaring difference between Napoleon and his partner. The American was used to lavish living, and enjoyed all the luxuries he could afford. But the Russian was neither accustomed to nor envious for such commodities. Illya was content with a roof, bed, some food, and some books.

However, the western life-style must have been rubbing off on the stoic agent too some extent, for slowly but steadily the Russian's taste had been expanding and his apartment had been increasing subtly in décor. Napoleon had been quietly working for some time now at improving the style of his partner. Already, the blonde agent had been dressing in finer clothes and buying nicer shoes; Napoleon prided himself in that fact. It was a work in progress, but Illya still had a long way to go before he would purchase a television or go to a Yankees game.

Napoleon headed to the kitchen and addressed his friend's comment. "Why? Don't you want me here?"

Illya followed the sound of his partner's voice, "As a matter of fact- " he hinted.

"What _is_ all this?" Napoleon interrupted with surprise.

Illya tilted his head, "What is what?"

"All this cereal! My word, look at this! You have half a dozen boxes here, at least!" Napoleon exclaimed in amusement. He hadn't really pegged his partner as a Wheaties sort of man.

Illya swiftly moved to join his friend. He reached out and touched each of the boxes to confirm their locations. "Yes, and please don't get them out of order," he said with controlled irritation, pushing the boxes farther back on the counter.

"Are you telling me you've had nothing to eat but cereal all this time?" Napoleon asked.

"As if it's any of your concern—which it's_ not_—I have been eating cereal and other dry foods primarily, yes. I've thought it prudent to stay away from the stove recently. I'm not anxious to see my home burn to the ground…so to speak."

"Ah, well," Napoleon said, opening the refrigerator door and peering inside. "Now I'm here, so I can cook us something."

Illya placed a hand on his friend's chest and gently pushed him back. With his other hand, Illya closed the refrigerator door. "I don't need a cook, Napoleon," he said, slowly pushing the other agent out of the kitchen.

Walking backwards, Napoleon's shoulder hit the door frame as Illya pushed him further and further out of the room. He glanced around and his eyes landed on his partner's bookcase. "Well I could read you something. I'm sure you've been missing your books."

That was actually very true. His mind had been craving his books like a drowning man craves air, but Illya wasn't very keen on being taken care of. "I don't need a governess either," he said. Knowing that they were in the living area now, Illya stopped pushing against his friend and removed his hand.

Napoleon glanced around before running a single finger across the surface of a nearby shelf. Small bundles of dust clung to his finger as Napoleon raised it for inspection. He rubbed his thumb over his finger to clean away to dust. "Looks like you could use a maid, though," he muttered.

Illya gave an exasperated sigh, "Napoleon, please. I don't need any-"

"How about company?"

Illya halted in mid-sentence at his partner's words.

Napoleon continued, "Do you need any of that?" he asked in a softer, sincere voice. He studied his friend's expression closely, reveling in the blatant emotions betrayed there. Despite having his eyes covered, Illya's face distinctly fell at Napoleon's words. The cool agent was usually so guarded with his emotions, but somehow, those bandages seemed to lower the defensive walls Illya had built to conceal and protect his most private emotions. The Russian's face told stories of lonely days and boring nights, and Napoleon unabashedly took in the tales with genuine interest and concern.

Illya turned away from his partner and sighed, "Look, Napoleon, I'm doing fine alone. I don't need someone to look after me. I'd really just prefer it if you went home."

But Napoleon was too perceptive to be fooled. Over the years, he and Illya had developed this uncanny ability to decipher through each other's poorly attempted lies. That said, Napoleon knew that the last thing Illya wanted was to be left alone again. But he also knew that he had obviously really irritated his friend by following him home.

It wasn't the first time Napoleon had been inside the other man's home. But nevertheless, it was clear that Illya felt he was being intruded upon. The uncomfortable edge to Illya seemed to be creeping up the back of his neck with ever passing moment. Napoleon wondered why his presence in this apartment was suddenly so irritating Illya.

Perhaps it was because Napoleon had followed him secretly. It was a foolish thing to do, he knew that. But Napoleon had been worried about his friend. All of the other times Napoleon had come to visit Illya, the blonde agent had been safely within the confines of his home. Perhaps he was being overprotective, but Napoleon felt he had to _see_ his partner make it safely back to his apartment. But, at the same time, he didn't want Illya to think he was being a mother hen either. So, when he dropped Illya off at the curb, Napoleon had decided he would follow the other agent and make sure he didn't run into any trouble. After all, THRUSH was nefarious enough to order its agents to ambush a defenseless blind man without a blink of hesitation.

The only trouble was, Illya had noticed him. Napoleon hadn't expected Illya to linger so long in the lobby. By the time Napoleon had parked the car and made it inside the building, Illya was still standing by the elevators. Napoleon knew he had been detected, but still didn't want to reveal his identity; so he remained frozen in the lobby, hoping Illya would dismiss the incident and continue along his way. But his suspicious partner's attention had already been alerted and there was nothing Napoleon could do to calm it. Illya had grabbed hold of his gun and Napoleon's eyes widened. He had to do something before his friend got too trigger-happy and started shooting at what he couldn't see. So, in an effort to dissolve the situation, Napoleon had opened and closed the door again, hoping Illya would think whoever it was had just turned around and left the lobby. Then Illya had called out, and Napoleon wondered if he should just give himself up…but he didn't. He remained silent and eventually, Illya continued on his way towards his apartment.

Napoleon waited a few moments before following his partner through the stairwell. This time, he tried to keep his distance so that Illya wouldn't detect him again. He was very conscious of the noise he was making as he then tiptoed his way down the hall. But then, something terrifying happened. Napoleon had turned the corner, and Illya had not been by his apartment door as anticipated. He had lost him.

Napoleon then advanced swiftly to the door, his hand reaching inside his suit jacket to grab hold of his gun. He jiggled the handle to find the door was locked. He knocked on its hard surface. "Illya?" he had called. There wasn't an answer. "Illya, it's me. If you're in there, open up!" He was starting to panic now. Where had he gone? How could he have lost him so quickly? Visions of THRUSH agents knocking his partner out and dragging him off somewhere had flooded into Napoleon's head with frightening clarity.

Roughly, Napoleon had shoved himself away from the door and spun around quickly, glancing frantically down both lengths of the hallway. He cursed himself under his breath for letting Illya out of his sight. His mind rushed to come up with a solution. Was it more likely that they would have taken Illya to the roof, or back down to the lobby? Or had they just dragged him into one of these other apartments? Napoleon knelt in the hallway and combed the floor with his eyes, searching for footprints or anything else that might tell him where his partner was. But the carpeting was too old. It had been tramped down my countless footsteps to the point where no shoe could leave a print in it anymore.

After a few more frantic moments, Napoleon's panic had been put to rest when his friend had suddenly appeared at the end of the hallway, alive and unharmed. Napoleon positioned himself against a wall so that he would be sure to stay out of his partner's way. But Illya didn't go straight into his apartment as expected. He hesitated a few moments, and then startled Napoleon when he spun around to face him.

Napoleon had held up his hands in surrender the moment Illya had turned the gun on him. It was a physical expression of surrender that was a totally useless gesture to make towards a blind man, but it was also a natural position to instinctively assume when one had a gun pointed at them. He didn't have his hands up for long, however, before he realized how silly that was and sheepishly lowered them, grateful that his friend couldn't see his foolish mistake.

After that moment, Napoleon had been caught and Illya had been noticeably irritated with him. He hadn't meant for Illya to notice him. He only wanted to make sure his friend was safe. But now Napoleon wondered if it had been worth it. Illya was acting slightly offended by the intrusion of being followed. Perhaps just leaving him alone would be the best thing to do.

Now, Napoleon watched Illya start to undo his shoulder holster. Napoleon still knew that his friend must be getting bored from being alone constantly. But considering how much he had already aggravated the man, perhaps it would be best to just leave him alone. "Well," Napoleon started, "If you're sure that's what you want."

Illya removed the holster from his arm, "I'm sure."

"Well, okay then…" Napoleon said with remaining uncertainty.

Illya nodded as he turned to head into his bedroom. "Right then, I trust you can show yourself out." Illya heard a distant, "right" from his partner before he closed his bedroom door.

Safely inside his room, Illya sighed. Truth be told, he _did_ wish Napoleon would stay. As strange as it seemed, the agent had been intensely craving human interaction for the past few weeks. Napoleon had been his only link to the outside world until today, and even then, the senior agent only visited Illya for a few short hours each day. Illya was sick of being alone. And the darkness of his mind seemed to make the loneliness of his surroundings even more hollow.

Illya grunted in frustration as he tossed his jacket where he knew his bed was. What was wrong with him? He never got this lonely before! Prior to the explosion, he could go hours upon hours and days upon days without seeing people, or wanting to. He would _seek_ solitude. How many times had he turned Napoleon and the other agents down for some social event in favor of going home for personal time spent reading or listening to his music? How many other days had he spent his free time at UNCLE in a secluded corner of the laboratory, working on an experiment he hoped would prove his latest theory? Illya Kuryakin was anything but a social butterfly, and now all of the sudden he was aching for companionship. For goodness sake, he was even grateful for the attention of those silly girls in Records, as much as he hated to admit it! He craved conversation, interaction, and physical touches with an intensity he never had before! How could his sight (or lack thereof) make such a drastic difference in his very personality?

He didn't know, but it was driving him mad. He hated how much this stupid injury had changed him. More and more, he was failing to feel like himself. He was becoming a different person, a stranger to the man he had lived as his whole life. All of the sudden, he was depending on other people for the tiniest of things. He couldn't find his own cab fare. He couldn't match his own clothes. He couldn't do his own job. He couldn't even straighten his own bloody tie! He was becoming a hopeless invalid! And that thought both infuriated and terrified Illya.

Yes, he was scared, scared to death. What would happen if his sight didn't return? What if the doctor removed his bandages next week to find that the medication had done nothing, and the scaring on his eyes was too severe to recover? How long would they let him remain an UNCLE agent? He would undoubtedly be replaced as Napoleon's partner, and most likely be reassigned to that Records room, or somewhere like it, until he wore out his welcome or retired. And what came after _that_? Sitting at home alone as he did now? Waiting for the day when Napoleon would eventually stop coming and the darkness would be able to swallow him completely, the way it tried to do now?

Illya shivered. He didn't want to think about it anymore. He walked into his small bathroom and splashed some water on the lower half of his face. The blonde agent flattened both of his hands against the cool surface of his countertop and leaned against them, feeling the water stream down his face and dive off his chin. He imagined starring at himself in the mirror, his eyes connecting with their solid blue reflection. For a moment, Illya tried to pretend that life was normal again.

He left his room and headed into the kitchen to pour himself a drink. He knew he was already sufficiently depressed, but he still couldn't resist the glass of vodka he prepared. Then he moved into the living room and allowed himself to drop onto his couch. His feet felt heavy as he propped them up on a small stool. He sipped his vodka and sighed, relishing the harsh sting it left behind as it slid down his throat. Illya leaned his head backwards and rested it on the back of the couch. But his head sprung forward again when he heard…

"Kidnapped, by Robert Louis Stevenson."

Illya was startled to hear his partner's voice, and almost protested. But after a moment of consideration, Illya simply sighed in relinquishment and returned his head to its reclined position, surrendering to the story.

"Chapter One…" Napoleon began, noticing the small smile that tugged at the corner of his friend's lips.

To be continued…

* * *

**Author's Note:** I chose Robert Louis Stevenson's _Kidnapped_ for two reasons. One, I really enjoy that book and I'm all about including my personal favorites into my stories. And two, David McCallum played Allen Breck Stewart in the miniseries version of _Kidnapped_ shot for British television in the late 70's, and I thought it would be fun to give him a shout-out for that terrific performance.


	9. On a walk

**Author's Note:** I have to apologize for so many things. I am sorry that I have ignored this story for so long. I've been extremely busy recently, and then I had a horrible case of writer's block for this chapter. I kept thinking, "It needs to be longer before I post it" but then I couldn't think of what else to add. So I just typed it out and gave it as much substance as I could. I really hope you enjoy it and that you can forgive the short length. Now that I'm past this chapter, I have a pretty clear idea about where I want to take this story for the following chapters. So hopefully, the next chapters should come with less of a hiatus in between. For all of you wonderful readers who are still interested in this story after this long, you guys are the best! And thank you all so much for reading!

* * *

It was a strange business, distinguishing between wakefulness and sleep when one lacked sight as a defining factor. For Illya, wakefulness equaled simple awareness; awareness of his body primarily, but also of his surroundings. When he was awake, his brain paid heed to the sounds, temperatures, smells and all around feelings of the room. But when he slept, all awareness was deactivated, and his remaining senses gradually vanished into the darkness. As he would awaken, touch would come back into Illya's body, and sounds would once more fill his ears, and he would resume smelling the scents that drifted through his room like an invisible fog. This is how he knew the difference between wakefulness and slumber…it was simply a matter of being aware.

But what made this morning particularly disorienting was that Illya didn't appear to be in his bed, or even in his bed_room_ for that matter. As Illya became aware of his body, he discovered that he was in a sitting position. His legs were stretched out before him, evidently being supported by some object underneath his feet, but under his legs, around the knees, he felt nothing. His arms were crossed over his chest and they apparently had something that felt like a blanket resting over them.

As Illya moved his body around, encouraging his blood to resume flowing through his veins once more, he tried to feel around and create an image of his surroundings. After a little while, Illya discovered he was sitting on his couch in his living room.

Illya remembered now. Napoleon had been reading to him last night. He must have fallen asleep during the book. Illya slowly sat up, grimacing at the stiffness of his muscles after a full night spent in a slumped posture. He listened to his apartment. "Napoleon?" he called. Then, remembering that night fully he joked, "For goodness sake, Napoleon, if you're there, say something and I promise not to point my gun at you."

But no reply came so he simply had to assume his partner had left after Illya had fallen asleep.

He flung the blanket off of him and stood. His knees hurt, like they had been on the verge of hyperextension all night. He winced at the pain. "Ahh, Vy dolzhny bytʹ starenie, Kuryakin," _(Ahh, you must be aging, Kuryakin,)_ he grumbled to himself.

Seeing that he was obviously very stiff and sore from his night's rest, Illya decided he needed some morning calisthenics before work. He made his way into his bedroom to check the time.

Early into his blindness, Illya had discovered that if he removed the glass from the face of his clock, he could feel the hands in order to tell time. He found his clock on his nightstand and felt the hands, careful not to move either of them so as to change the accuracy of the clock. Napoleon should not be coming to pick him up for an hour yet. That would be long enough for some exercise.

After changing his clothes—which he had slept in from the day before—Illya did his morning routine of stretches and simple workouts and then gathered his keys, glasses, and cane and prepared to go for a walk.

* * *

He was pleased with the temperature when he stepped outside. The air was briskly cool and the breeze was gentle. He also determined that it must be a particularly clear morning because he could feel the sun coating his skin with a soft layer of warmth. But he guessed that it must have rained either late last night or early that morning. The city streets, much like the fur of an animal, always adopted a different smell when it was wet. He could distinctly detect the remnants of rain around him, and the subtle sound of tires kicking up tiny drops of water as the cars drove across the pavement only served to confirm Illya's observations. Breathing in deeply, Illya began his stroll down the sidewalk.

Despite the early hour, the streets of New York were still buzzing with frantic travel. Pedestrians bumped into him as they busily made their ways towards hectic jobs and nearly missed appointments. But to the cool Russian, life was simple…at least for these precious moments.

Illya walked peacefully in the midst of chaos. What was out of sight was out of mind. As much as Illya wanted his sight back, he had to acknowledge the fact that there were certain advantages to being sightless. Beautiful images are commonly observed. It is easy to look at an expertly achieved painting, see the lovely colors and textures and call it beautiful. But over the last few weeks, Illya have been struck with how many beautiful sounds and smells there were that always seemed to go unnoticed. The Russian was hardly sentimental by nature, but there was something intoxicating about listening to nature. The faint whistle the wind had as it whipped its way through mazes of skyscrapers, the hum of hundreds of conversation being layered over each other, the way the flapping of a large flock of birds seemed to almost perfectly mimic the purr of a cat…these were all discoveries that Illya was making on a daily basis.

But what seemed to interest him most was just observing his own body. As the scientist that he was, Illya was fascinated by the human body. He would sit for unknown lengths of time in his apartment and simply focus on hearing himself breathe. He would plug his ears and would be struck by the sound of what he assumed to be his own blood flow. He would try to simply focus on feeling his heart beat inside his chest. And all of it was things his body did naturally without ever having to think about it. He observed that the subconscious signals the brain must send to the rest of the body must be innumerable. From a scientific standpoint, Illya was even more impressed with the world when sight was removed. He reveled in the feel of his own movements and he strolled. His legs swung easily underneath him. His shoes weighed heavily on his ankles, aiding in the momentum of his strides. A small smile teased his mouth as Illya recalled a story his mother used to tell him of when he was an infant, learning to walk. He would manage to get into a standing position, and then he would transfer his weight back and forth from one foot to the other. He would never move forward at first, but his mother used to say that the smile on his face would make it seem as though he was convinced he was walking. Illya breathed out a small laugh to think that a task, which is so trivial now, was once such a complicated and clumsy attempt.

It was an odd thing to consider, but somehow, Illya felt a strange sense of satisfaction in simply being able to observe such fundamental abilities he always took for granted. With his sight, there were many things to catch his eye and distract his mind. But with all lights on earth turned off, the darkest places for observation were given their treasured moments in the spotlight. Through his blindness, Illya was able to see the world in a completely different way. At least, in that aspect, a blessing could be found in that curse.

So, as Illya walked, he was actually in a pleasant mood. He was still cautious. No amount of peaceful bliss could assuage his natural sense of alert. But at the same time, he was experiencing a very rare state of calm. The suspicious agent was used to always glancing over his shoulder for possible attacks. But now, his other senses had been heightened to the point where he scarcely needed his sight in order to perceive danger. He prided himself in this, and he knew that if he were ever reinstated to a field position again, it would be a skill that would make itself quite useful on missions.

Illya was careful to keep a clear account of his travels in his mind. He knew where he was in the city so he knew how to get home and roughly the amount of time it would take to get there. He knew he had to turn two more corners before he would be on the same street as his apartment building. Thinking that it should be nearing the time when Napoleon would pick him up, Illya decided he should cut his walk short and simply turn around. So he made an about face and started in the way from whence he came.

However, he had only taken a half step when he collided with the person who was walking behind him. Illya spoke out with a startled apology. "Oh my! I'm sorry. Please excuse me," he said politely.

"It's quite alright," the friendly female voice replied. "I just didn't anticipate you turning around."

"Yes, it was foolish of me. I apologize."

"No trouble," she said, noticing the bandages and the cane for the first time. Her heart went out to him. "Would you…like someone to walk with you to wherever you're going?"

Illya had to keep himself from laughing. This woman was offering herself as an escort? To _him_? It was comical indeed. With all of his training and skill, he was convinced that this woman could do nothing to protect Illya that he could not do better himself. Still, with the joke kept to himself, Illya just shook his head mildly and said, "Thank you, but I don't think that will be necessary. My home isn't far from here. But I appreciate the offer nonetheless." As he spoke he moved to walk around the lady.

"Alright, well…goodbye then," she said after a little while.

"Goodbye," Illya replied and then began his walk home. As he moved farther away from the woman, Illya allowed the smile to slip onto his face. He tried to imagine being led around New York City by the arm of a little woman. Still, it was a polite thing for her to offer. And of course, she had no way of knowing his background. Aside from THRUSH agents, few people could spot an UNCLE agent simply by looking at them. To anyone else of the street, Illya knew he probably just looked like a defenseless young blind man. But he was hardly defenseless.

He turned a corner and continued down the street. As he walked, Illya tried to determine how much time he had before Napoleon would be by to pick him up. Without his sight, the wristwatch he wore was useless, and Illya couldn't even rely on the length of shadows or the placement of the sun to depict the time of day. So Illya was left only with his inner clock, his natural sense of time. From that authority, Illya would guess that he had about thirty minutes to get home. That would be enough.

He tapped his cane down the sidewalk as he set his pace to a calm, even stride. He was relaxed and he allowed his mind to wonder. He thought about Napoleon, how kind his partner had been last night. Yes, it was true Napoleon irritated him on many levels. And Illya was certain that he did the same for Napoleon. Yes, there was a constant sense of competition between them and they teased and mocked each other frequently. But there was also a very strong sense of devotion that they held for each other. It was a devotion that could only be fully recognized by partners who were constantly relying on the other one for simple survival. There was a respect that they each held for one another…a confidence, and yes, even a fondness. Theirs was a special bond, the kind that was the result of years spent working side by side in the most dangerous and desperate circumstances. And Napoleon expressed that special friendship last night, reading one of Illya's books to him and meeting a very small, but aching need for the educated Russian. They were different in so many ways, but Illya knew that he would have done the same thing for his partner if the roles had been reversed. It was satisfying to Illya that he had such a stable and understood bond with Napoleon. In the spy business, that sort of stability and constancy was rare. Perhaps that is why the two partners had such a mutually subdued, yet profoundly deep relationship. The rarest of things was always treated as the most valuable. And Illya's friendship with Napoleon was valued indeed.

As he walked, still contemplating all of these things, Illya's mind registered that he was suddenly being jerked violently to one side. All at once, Illya was rendered motionless and then…all of his senses drifted rapidly into the state of unaware.

* * *

**Author's Note:** With this chapter, I just wanted to explore a little bit more the new world being sightless has opened for Illya. I tried to imagine the types of sounds, feelings, and smells that he would suddenly notice for possibly the first time. But I don't know how I feel about the finished product. So I ask you, did you enjoy this chapter? Or did you feel it was a bit rambling? Be honest. As a writer, I would really like to know.


	10. Waking up

**Author's Note:** Please, please, PLEASE forgive me for not updating this sooner! Please believe me when I say that I really do like this story and I really do intend to see it to a rightful conclusion. I've just been interfered by life so my writing time has faulted recently. I am definitely going to try to be more faithful with this story. I really do feel bad for leaving all you great readers in the dark for so long (no pun intended). Anyway, without further delay, here's chapter TEN!

* * *

Napoleon swiftly marched through UNCLE headquarters with firm strides. He was in a hurry. The usually sociable agent only spared two syllables of greeting to everyone he encountered and his pace didn't falter a single step as he passed the receptionist's desk. No one was particularly surprised to see him in such a rush. As head of section two, the suave agent always had important matters with which to deal. As he approached Mr. Waverly's office, Napoleon promptly asked, "Is the big man in?"

Mr. Waverly's personal secretary looked up from her notepad. "Yes, he is," she answered. But as Napoleon reached for the handle, the attractive woman asked, "Is he expecting you?"

Napoleon didn't even respond to her question but instead opened the door to swiftly enter. "Mr. Waverly, I need to speak with you."

The older man looked up at Napoleon with a slightly surprised expression. The young agent was usually more refined in his entrances. Waverly held up a single finger and then swiveled slightly in his chair. "Of course, Stevenson. That's entirely understandable," he said into the telephone receiver pinned against his ear. "The more personal aspects of the situation are regrettable, of course, though I do believe it is for the better that this whole affair occurred."

Napoleon struggled to remain patient while the chief finished his conversation, but everything within him was screaming, _"HURRY!"_ He wringed his hands behind his back, trying his best not to lunge forward and press the telephone's cradle down to disconnect the call himself.

"I agree completely. It shall be a good lesson for the next time this sort of confusion occurs," Waverly continued and Napoleon stared impatiently at the ceiling. "Very well, thank you for informing me…of course, I will…right then…yes, same to you, goodbye then." Mr. Waverly swiveled back around in his chair before returning the phone to its base and turning his attention on his chief enforcement agent. "Now, Mr. Solo," he said, "what, pray tell, has you storming into my office at such an early hour and in such an unbecoming fashion?"

Napoleon gulped, "I'm sorry, sir. I wouldn't have barged in like that unless it was for something very important, and I'm afraid this is."

"Well then, what is it?"

"It's Illya, sir. I was supposed to pick him up this morning and bring him to work. But when I got to his apartment, Illya wasn't there. He's gone missing, sir."

Waverly stroked his chin thoughtfully, "Are you certain he isn't simply spending the day in bed at home? After all, the man is still injured, perhaps he just needed some rest."

"I considered that. When he wouldn't answer the door, I was able to pick through the lock and take a look around his house. He wasn't anywhere in the whole apartment."

"Perhaps he's gone out somewhere and lost track of the time."

"Illya knew I was coming by to pick him up this morning. It isn't like him to neglect his appointments, especially not with me. I'm worried that something's happened to him, sir. He's incredibly vulnerable right now and if he were to fall into the wrong hands…" Napoleon couldn't even let himself finish that thought if he wanted to remain composed in front of his superior. Luckily, Waverly seemed to understand his meaning.

The man nodded slowly, "Yes, that could prove to be quite inconvenient. Very well, I'll order a search party."

Napoleon bowed his head slightly in gratitude, "Thank you, sir."

Waverly just nodded, "In the meantime, I have an issue I'd like you to look into."

Napoleon looked grave, lowing his eyebrows in quiet concern. "What kind of issue?" he asked.

"The jurisdiction kind. It seems our people in the New Mexico area have had a bit of a run-in with the local authorities. There's suspicion of THRUSH activities, but we shall need an agent to investigate in order to verify that."

As soon as Napoleon heard the words "New Mexico", he started to blink in confusion. How could he respectfully explain that he didn't want to take a mission right now, that he wanted to help Illya? Somehow he had to make Waverly understand that his partner had to take priority over everything else. "Sir, if I may, I'd really prefer not to take another mission at this time. I'd rather join the search party and help find Illya."

"Mr. Solo, the situation in New Mexico is very delicate. It requires the scrutiny of a high ranking UNCLE agent. The task force here can undoubtedly locate Mr. Kuryakin without your assistance. In the meantime, you're needed in New Mexico."

Napoleon sighed. He wasn't willing to go on a mission without knowing that his partner was safe. But if it came to the point where Mr. Waverly simply ordered him to do so, then he would have no choice in the matter. With that in mind, Napoleon tried to plan his next response very carefully, "Sir, I'm not doubting the importance of this mission. But someone like Conway or Rhymes could certainly handle something of this level. They are both highly trained and competent agents. They could undoubtedly be trusted with such a responsibility, and I'm sure they would welcome the challenge and the vote of confidence. And as for where I'm needed," his face took on a determined expression, "with all due respect sir, Illya is my partner. If he's in trouble, then wherever he is at this moment…_that's_ where I'm needed."

* * *

It was a strange business, distinguishing between wakefulness and unconsciousness when one lacked sight as a defining factor. For Illya, wakefulness equaled simple awareness.

As he became aware, and his senses slowly began to charge back to life, Illya struggled to understand where he was. He noticed instantly that he was lying facedown on a hard and cold surface. Illya moved to turn his head, and his cheek scraped against the rough ground, but he didn't care. That small scrape was the least of his pains. His body ached as it did after a mission that was particularly physically demanding. Every minuscule movement he made caused some sort of discomfort deep in his bones and muscles.

He moved his arms, trying to slowly—and with a great deal of pain—push himself up off of the ground. But when he placed his hand against the cool surface, he discovered that it landed in a puddle of some sort of liquid that was pooling around his chest. Fear leapt to the agent's mind. As quickly as he could, Illya rolled over onto his back, grunting at the pain. He reached up and felt his wet chest, searching for a bullet wound. He found several places were he felt for certain he would have some particularly nasty bruises, and he thought he might have cracked a few ribs somehow, but he did not feel the distinguishing sting of open flesh.

Relieved, Illya turned back to the puddle and tried to determine what it was. He dipped his hand in the liquid and brought it to his face to smell it. No, it was obviously not blood. It smelt fowl, but with its consistency, Illya guessed that it was nothing more than dirty water.

At least that mystery was solved, much to the Russian's relief. But Illya still didn't know where he was or how he got there. He tried to replay the last few moments of his memory, searching for any clue towards his current state. He had been walking down the street, on his way home. Then…then…something else happened. Somehow…Illya was attacked…or knocked out at any rate. And now? Now he was…somewhere.

Illya grunted in frustration, but his grunt set him off on a coughing fit. With each cough, a shooting pain hit his ribcage. Now he was positive he had cracked something. It felt as if someone were trying to pry apart his ribs with each forceful cough. After a short while, Illya managed to subdue his choking. He was still uncertain of his surroundings, and the fact that he could be in the hands of THRUSH was always prevalent in his mind. There was a chance that whoever his captors were still thought he was unconscious. If that were the case, Illya might be able to procure an advantage if he could possibly gain his bearings and devise a plan before they were on to him. But he would have to be quick, and he would have to be quiet.

Mustering his strength, Illya slowly began to push himself off of the ground. He managed to get onto his hands and knees, nearly toppling over from dizziness. His equilibrium was completely thrown off and he had to concentrate just to keep himself steady. Once he was securely in a kneeling position, he began to feel his hands around the ground, searching for his cane. It was unlikely that he would be left with his cane in reach. Illya knew that. But the agent had become so dependant on the walking stick that he was just desperate enough to make an attempt. Without that cane, Illya truly felt blind. But his search came to the predictable conclusion; the tool was not in reach. Alright then, he would just have to make due without it.

Slowly, Illya managed to stand upright. Still conscious of his volume level, he tried to suppress his groan when both his knees popped loudly. There was no telling how long he had remained in that position on the ground. In addition to his sense of direction being completely thrown off, Illya's sense of time also suffered. He hadn't the faintest idea if it was morning or evening, or even if entire days had slipped past. But he tried not to worry about that now. At that very moment, the most important thing was getting to safety.

Illya tried to take account of his basic defenses. First thing was first, Illya checked his pockets for his communicator. Like his cane, it was unlikely that his enemies would leave his communicator in his possession, but once again, it was worth a try. If there was any way to contact his partner, Illya would be a lot better off. But all of his pockets were empty. His wallet with all of his identification had been taken from him as well.

It was inconvenient, but not unpredictable that all of Illya's resources would have been taken from him. Unfortunately, because he was not going on a mission but rather a casual walk before work, Illya had not fully prepared himself with all of his typical weaponry, such as exploding buttons and primacord shoelaces. In a situation like this, those items could undoubtedly be helpful. But Illya was profoundly surprised when he reached beneath his jacket and discovered that his firearm was still strapped in the holster. The trained agent's brow furrowed in confusion. That was terribly odd. Why would they leave this with him? He pulled the gun forth and checked its cartridge. All of the ammunition was still in place. Perhaps they loaded it with blanks? But what could possibly be the use of that, except to toy with him? Illya tilted his head slightly in thought; he wouldn't put it past THRUSH. They enjoyed toying with UNCLE agents. Whatever the inspiration behind it was, Illya was not about to begrudge his enemy's possible oversight. It was the one advantage the Russian seemed to have.

With his weapon prepared to fire, Illya methodically went about clearing his surroundings. In order to keep the noise down, he resorted to snapping his fingers and trying to paint a mental picture of his bearings based on the echoes that returned to him. All he needed was a wall. If he could manage to find that, he would at least have something to put his hands on as opposed to floating insecurely in the middle of the room. The snapping method actually seemed to work, much to the Russian's surprise, and soon, Illya had his first clue to his surroundings as his hand connected with a brick wall.

The brick was cool to the touch and felt as though it might even be slightly wet. Sliding his hand across the rough surface, Illya used the wall as a guide, taking slow steps and strained his ears to catch any possible sound. He could hear a distant hum, perhaps from some heavy machinery, or a large computer of some sort. He also heard occasional dripping and its resulting echo across what Illya now knew to be brick walls. The smell of his surroundings was fowl, but it was to be expected. The experienced agent had never been in a prison that had a pleasant aroma.

Suddenly, Illya crashed straight into a large object that reached about his knee area. He stumbled forward, kicking the thing and causing it to skid across the ground with a great noise. Illya winced, both from the pain of jamming his knee, and from the obvious alert to his presence the sound gave. _'Alright, new plan,'_ Illya thought, strapping his pistol back in its holster, _'navigation first, attack second.' _He waved his hands in front of him until he made his way back to the wall and was able to continue on his path.

Soon, Illya's hand left the wall and landed on a door of some kind. He felt around until he found the handle. If he was stunned to find he still had his gun, it was nothing compared to the surprise he felt when he realized the door was unlocked. Something wasn't right. They were making this _far_ too easy for him. Suspicious that he would be playing right into their trap, Illya froze in front of the door, refusing to exit through it. Somehow he knew it would only lead to trouble. But what else could he do? It wasn't as though he could just look around for a better escape. Chances were it was the only door out of there. So, reluctantly and on full alert, Illya stepped through the door, stubbing his toe on the small step.


	11. Escape

Alright, here's the next chapter. I really hope you enjoy it! It picks up precisely where the last chapter left off.

* * *

As he crossed through the door, Illya entered what felt like a small room. At once, he became completely disoriented. Sound speakers overhead blared loud music, rendering his sense of hearing useless for aid. There were also intense fragrances that flooded his senses with every breath. Without his sense of sight, sound, or smell, and having only his hands to feel around with, Illya felt completely disabled on all levels. So this was THRUSH's game, rendering him totally debilitated in each of his main senses. For a moment, Illya considered going back the way he had come. At least in his cell he felt more aware and in control.

But as tempting as that option was, Illya equated it with surrender. And failure was not something the determined Russian usually allowed. So, using his hands to search out a path, Illya carefully made his way through the room as a blind man. He bumped and banged his way through a maze of obstacles. Fortunately, none of them seemed to be booby trapped and he managed to reach the opposite end of the room with little more than bruises as battle scars. Soon, Illya had located a second door and found it to be unlocked. Cautiously, Illya entered.

The second room was much larger in comparison. Although the distracting music and smells were still prevalent, they were slightly less strong in that larger environment. Frankly, he was surprised to have made it through that last room without any injuries. The fact that it had been so easy convinced Illya that this room must undoubtedly hold some sort of trap for him. With that in mind, Illya cautiously examine the room with what little scrutiny he could manage.

"Well, well," said a female voice, coated with a heavy southern twang, "What do we have here? A Mr. Sneaky?"

Illya didn't answer. Instead, he backed himself up against the closed door to defend against a possible rear attack. His hand reached halfway up his chest, prepared to grab his gun; but he didn't dare to make that move just yet. With the loud music, he couldn't tell exactly where his foe was located. He would need to be able to point and shoot quickly if he were to draw out his gun. So he waited until his enemy gave herself away.

"There, there, Sweetie Pie," the voice soothed, "I don't want to hurt you."

Illya could tell the woman was growing closer, but he still couldn't determine her precise location. He remained patient, hoping he would have a chance to act before he was subdued.

"Now who blindfolded you?" The woman reached forward and began to peel away the bandages.

That contact was all Illya needed. In a flash, he drew his weapon, seized the woman, spun her around, and smacked a hand over her mouth before her scream could even be heard. "The doctor put it there," Illya whispered in her ear, "and I imagine he wants it to stay on for a while yet."

He heard the woman whimper against his hand, but Illya allowed himself to feel no remorse. He had dealt with these femme fatales before. Their seductive ploys and acts of fragility had defeated many a fine agent. Even Illya had faced his fair share of temptations. If there was one thing Illya Kuryakin was, it was studious. He had learned from his past mistakes. He would not be easily taken in by the games of this agent.

"Hands up," he said, and soon felt the change in her posture as she obeyed. "Not a sound," Illya ordered. Then, keeping the barrel of his gun against her head, he frisked her thoroughly from her hands to her ankles. Once he was convinced she had no obvious weapons on her, he stood once more and returned his hand to her mouth.

"Now," Illya said, "you're going to make sure I get out of here safely. One wrong move and you're gone. And if I even suspect that you're trying to mislead me, I'll pull this trigger. Understood?"

The woman nodded.

"Good. Now walk."

Illya let the woman do the leading, but kept his grip on her firm in case she tried to break away. However, they had only made it a few yards when a door directly opposite them flew open.

"Alright, hold it, tough guy!" a male voice commanded.

Illya quickly sidestepped until he bumped into a wall with his shoulder, protecting his flank. He clutched the woman against him more firmly, moving the gun to the side of her head. "Watch it," he warned, "This is loaded."

"Put the gun down," the voice said.

"Tell me what you want with me," Illya demanded.

"Right now, I want you to _put the gun down_."

The UNCLE agent shook his head, "I don't think so."

Illya could hear the steady footsteps of the man drawing closer to him. Illya backed up a few steps of his own. "Not another step," he ordered. But he still heard the steps continue. Illya backed up until he felt his rear bump into some sort of a table. Illya was cornered, and the steps still persisted. "Hold it, I mean it! Or the girl will die!" he desperately threatened, twisting the barrel of the gun against the woman's temple.

"Easy now," the man said. "We don't want this to go down the hard way."

Frantically, Illya tried to formulate some plan of action. He could tell his enemy was drawing closer, and all of Illya's directions of escape were growing more and more narrow. But there was no way for Illya to know which route would be safest. He just had to guess, and he had to be quick about it.

Just as Illya was about to start shimmying around the table at his back, a loud crashing noise sounded from somewhere behind Illya. Instinctively, the agent's head turned in that direction. As soon as Illya was sufficiently distracted, the other man tore the woman from Illya's grasp and hit the gun out of his hand. Together, the two men went toppling to the floor.

Instantly, Illya found the man's hands and grabbed hold of his enemy's gun. They struggled for control of the weapon, each man exerting intense strength just to keep the gun from pointing at himself. They rolled over each other and wrestled for an advantage. The man straddled Illya like a horse and forced his full body weight into the struggle over the gun. Illya gritted his teeth to keep the pistol from angling down upon him. The Russian's arms began to quiver under the pressure. Finally able to fight it no more, Illya stopped pushing against the other man and instead redirected his and his enemy's joined fists to the side. This caused his opponent to fall forward clumsily, allowing Illya a chance to maneuver himself into the upward position. The men continued to battle over the weapon until Illya suddenly felt a hard thump as something very solid came crashing down on the back of his head. Illya released his hold on the gun and limply fell next to the other man.

Illya was helpless for a few seconds. The whole room felt like it was swirling around and around. He knew he was flat against the floor, but it felt like the deck of a small boat in dangerous waters. Somehow, Illya became aware that both his hands were being pulled behind his back.

"You're under arrest," the male voice said, "for attempted robbery."

"Robbery?" Illya exclaimed, and then groaned at the throbbing pain it caused his head.

"How will I ever be able to thank you enough officer?" the woman cried. "I don't know what I ever would have done if you hadn't come in!"

"Well, I was just across the street and looked through your window when I saw this wacko pull out a gun!" the policeman explained.

"It was so smart of you to throw that mixing bowl to distract him!" The female voice said.

The police officer heroically replied, "I'm just doing my job, ma'am." Then tugging on Illya's now handcuffed wrists, said, "Get up, dirtbag!"

"Wait a minute," Illya demanded, rising to his knees, "Where am I?"

"You're in my hair salon!" exclaimed the woman.

"A hair salon?" Illya repeated, dumbfounded, though it slowly started to make sense. These types of establishments commonly played music over loud speakers in order to entertain customers, and the intense fragrances were probably beauty products of some kind. It also explained why his gun had not been taken from him and making his way through the rooms had been so easy. It was all nothing but a harmless hair salon! Inwardly, Illya groaned at the situation, _'Oh, this is ridiculous!'_ As soon as he was in a standing position, Illya felt a hand connect to his cheek with a solid slap.

"And that's for touching my bosoms, you pig!" the hair stylist cried.

Illya shook off the slap, "Wait a minute, there's been a misunderstanding. I wasn't going to rob anyone. I thought you were someone else."

The cop spurred Illya forward with a rough nudge, "Tell it to the judge!"

* * *

**Author's Note: **Okay, be honest…how many of you guessed that? Could any of you tell that's where I was going with this chapter? For a long time, I was debating whether I should have THRUSH really kidnap him, or if I should just give it a spin like this. I finally decided that if I wanted to bring THRUSH into it here then I would have to come up with a "to take over the world!" plot, and I'm really not that creative. So I took the easy way out. But I do think that this way is more funny. But anyway, tell me what you think. I really look forward to your feedback on this!

-Monker


	12. A matter of will

Once again, I'm sorry for the delay. I had some family visiting for a long length of time, pushing my writing time to the back of the line. And then, this chapter decided to be difficult. So it's taken me longer to finish it than I would have anticipated. But anyway, here it is now. I hope you like it.

* * *

Napoleon swaggered down the long corridor of jail cells, following the guidance of the large warden in front of him. The agent tried not to make eye contact with any of the prisoners in the numerous cells due to the threatening glares it always seemed to result in. The more outgoing inmates moved to the front of their prisons and began to call towards Napoleon, hurling insults at his pricy suit and fine haircut. Finally, just as Napoleon was beginning to think their destination must be the very last enclosure, the warden stopped and nodded towards and barred wall of a very quiet cell.

Napoleon peered through the bars and saw his partner, sitting on a bench. His arms and legs were crossed and his blonde head leaned against the filthy prison wall at his back. With the bandages still in place, Napoleon couldn't tell if the Russian was even awake. Looking down at a small piece of paper the guard at the front office had given him, Napoleon called, "Paging inmate, 65 dash C dash 44019."

"Oh shut up, Napoleon," Illya moaned. "I'm really not in the mood."

Napoleon smiled slightly and then nodded to the warden to open the cell. "You know, I never thought I'd see this day," he teased. "Illya Kuryakin behind bars."

"Yes, well savor seeing it now, because you never shall again."

"I should hope not! Now that you've had a chance to sow your wild oats, I sincerely hope you never find the urge to return to your life of crime."

"I'm sorry, hadn't I told you to shut up? It's funny, I could have sworn I had," the Russian mused sardonically.

Napoleon let out a small laugh as he entered the jail cell. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I come bearing gifts." As he spoke, Napoleon tapped his partner's leg with the cane.

Illya's brow furrowed as he reached forward to feel the object. Once he grabbed hold of the handle, and felt how it dissolved familiarly into the palm of his hand, Illya inclined his head towards his friend. "Where did you find it?" he asked.

"After our conversation on the phone, and while Mr. Waverly was negotiating with the district chief of police, I visited the scene of the crime,"

"Napoleon," Illya warned steadily. He was really getting sick of this "criminal" talk.

Smirking, Napoleon continued, "I had a look around the salon. It turns out you entered through a back door that led out into an alleyway. I found your glasses, cane, and communicator spread out around there. I also found your wallet," as he said this, Napoleon tossed the sunglasses, communication device, and billfold onto his partner's lap, "but it was empty. Looks like you were mugged, tovarich."

Illya ran his thumb across the smooth leather of his wallet. "So that's what happened," he mused quietly. It also explained why his pistol had been left. More than likely, Illya had been mugged by a couple of kids. They probably took off when they saw the gun. But that _didn't_ explain why his communicator had been removed from his pocket. Illya considered this for a while and then finally decided that, if he had been attacked, there was a chance the pen-like device could have flown from his pocket at any point during the struggle. Even though Illya was grateful to discover what happened to him, knowing that he was so effectively subdued by what was probably nothing more than some punk kids was an extremely sobering and degrading thought to the seasoned enforcement agent.

Grabbing the wallet, Illya fingered the contents.

"They took you to the proverbial cleaners, my friend," Napoleon noted.

"Yes, but they predictably left this," Illya said, holding up the small, yellow UNCLE identification card, "which would have proven my innocence to that glorified crossing guard," he said, with an obvious level of disdain.

Napoleon smirked. "Well, you're proven now. So let's get you out of here," as he spoke, Napoleon moved to grab his partner's elbow and help him from the bench.

"You read my mind," Illya mumbled.

Once the blond agent was steadily on his feet, the pair resumed their newly accustomed position of hand on shoulder as Napoleon guided his partner back down the hall of cells.

* * *

The drive home was quiet. Napoleon hazarded several glances at his friend who remained completely still. Once again, Napoleon wasn't sure if his partner had managed to fall asleep or if he was merely deep in thought. Napoleon noticed how Illya cradled his right arm against his chest. Based on the police officer's report, no gun shots were fired during the struggle, but that didn't mean Illya couldn't have been hurt in some other way.

"Maybe we should have medical check you out," Napoleon commented, trying to keep his eyes on the road.

Illya's head lifted, his shoulder's straightened, and he stopped cradling his arm as obviously. "No, that's not necessary," he answered promptly.

"Well, what's wrong with your arm?"

"Nothing, I probably just slept at a strange angle," he lied. The truth was, the officer had used great force when knocking Illya's weapon out of his hand. With that struggle added to the preexisting pain from being robbed and beaten, Illya's body was sore all over. But he was not eager to discuss this with his partner.

"What time is it anyway?" Illya asked. Even though he _did_ want to change the subject from yet another one of his recent short comings, he _was_ genuinely curious about the time. There was no telling how long he had been lying in that alleyway before he awoke.

Napoleon looked once more at his partner's arm, and then decided to drop the subject…for now. "It's roughly thirteen hundred hours."

"1 pm? That means I must have been knocked-out for several hours before I ever made it into the hair salon." Illya shook his head, "It's as though my concept of time has flown completely out the window. Some things seem so short, like they never even happened, and other things are painfully drawn out."

Napoleon nodded as he drove. The past eight hours had been some of the most drawn out he had ever experienced. Knowing that Illya was missing, but having no way of contacting him or knowing if he was alright was one of the most terrifying and helpless feelings of Napoleon's life. If there was one thing he hated, it was being in the dark; especially when it involved someone about whom he cared a great deal.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Napoleon knew that UNCLE agents were expendable, and that danger and death were just hazards of the occupation. But those company policies and UNCLE requirements were painted in a completely different light when it came down to one's own partner. No agent considered his partner truly expendable. And knowing that Illya was blind and unable to sufficiently defend himself against THRUSH built an indignation inside Napoleon that fueled his drive to find Illya. Napoleon had been placed in command of the search parties, and having to maintain a level head in order to take authority was one of the few things that kept Napoleon sane for those eight hours. Yes, that frantic time certainly seemed incredibly drawn out.

Nodding his head, Napoleon agreed, "I know what you mean."

"Oh, I sincerely doubt that," Illya answered quietly.

Napoleon hazarded another glance at his partner. "Well," he said sadly, "maybe you're right…but you could explain it to me."

Illya scoffed softly and turned his head towards the window.

"Who knows," Napoleon went on, "Maybe talking about this will make it easier on you."

"Nothing's going to make this easier, Napoleon. You couldn't possibly understand what this is like until you've experienced it…until you've lived it."

Napoleon sighed and gripped the steering wheel harder. His partner had always been stubborn and this was just another example of that. If only Illya could realize that there wasn't anything inherently wrong with accepting help when it was offered. A willingness to accept help did not equal weakness, and a stubbornness to deny it did not equal strength. Shaking his head, Napoleon let the silence fill the car. He had told Illya he was willing to listen, but that couldn't make his partner talk. Shrugging, Napoleon kept his eyes on the road. He didn't mind waiting. Even Illya couldn't be silent forever.

On Illya's part, even if he _did_ want to explain to Napoleon what he was going through, how could he ever find the words? This was by far the most challenging thing Illya had ever faced because it attacked him at his very core. It wreaked havoc on the way he had lived every single day of all the thirty-two years of his life. How could he describe something like that to Napoleon? How could he ever make him understand?

How could Napoleon ever know that sickening feeling of disorientation, of having no way of knowing where you are or what is happening around you? How could Napoleon ever understand what it's like to live in a gaping hole, absent of all light, whose penetrating darkness is deafening merely by its monstrous mass. How could anyone know the debilitating fear that wondered whether that mass would ever go away; if light could ever strike through that darkness again? It was the same fear that reduced Illya to shivers at night. What if life continued this way?

"Napoleon," Illya quietly said after awhile. "…I don't think I can do this," he admitted solemnly.

"Do what?" Napoleon asked.

"This," Illya gave a vague gesture with his hand. "I don't think I can get used to this. I can't live this way. It's too…too…" Illya sighed in frustration. "Oh, forget it," he said.

Napoleon's brows lowered in concern. He didn't like what he was hearing, and the desperate, melancholy tone in Illya's voice caused a nervous twinge to pinch Napoleon's spine. Clearing his throat and trying to sound encouraging, Napoleon said, "Well, you're forgetting that all of this could only be temporary. In a few days, you'll see the doctor again, and this could all be over."

"And _you're_ forgetting that there's a very big 'if' involved in that scenario," Illya pointed out glumly as something caused his heart muscles to tighten. "The doctor could remove the bandages, and nothing could have changed."

Napoleon winced, "Illya."

"Napoleon, don't try to cheer me up as you would some child!" the Russian warned firmly. "I know my condition as fully as you do. And you and I both know that there is a severe chance that I may never see again! Whether or not you want to believe them, those are the facts!"

"I know they are!" Napoleon yelled, swerving to stay on the road. Pinching his lips together and holding his breath, Napoleon struggled to keep his emotions stable. "I know they are," he repeated quietly after a while.

Illya paused, slightly startled by the response he got from his partner. He could hear the tremors shoot through Napoleon's voice. Was it possible that this whole ordeal was scaring Napoleon just as much as it was scaring Illya?

"I know those are the facts, Illya," Napoleon continued, once he was sure he could contain his own nerves. "But just maybe I haven't given up enough to surrender to them just yet. Maybe I still have faith in you."

Again, Illya turned his head towards the window.

"And frankly, I'm a little surprised to see you giving up so easily."

"Don't judge me, Napoleon," Illya growled, shaking his head. "This has been _anything_ but easy."

"But you've faced tougher things than this. You've been one foot in the grave with a noose around your neck and still been able to pull through it. You've been shocked, stabbed, drowned…blown up, beat up, shot down and run over, and you've always made it out alive. You're the best agent I know!"

"Correction, I _was_ the best agent you knew. You wouldn't have even recognized me today. I made a perfect fool of myself."

Napoleon shook his head, "Don't beat yourself up about that. You had every reason to believe you had been captured."

"Oh sure, and the smell of shampoo and women's perfume had no reason to tip me off."

"If I were in your shoes, I would have made the same assumptions. You couldn't have known."

"Exactly, I couldn't have known. None of my UNCLE training made any difference! I can't be blind and be and agent! It's impossible!"

"Okay, so what if that's true? What if you can't be with UNCLE? What then?"

Illya wasn't expecting that question. His mind stuttered to think of an answer. "I-I don't know," he answered quietly, "UNCLE's all I've really known. It's been my life for so long. I…I can't imagine a life without it. But somehow I…" Illya's expression darkened, "I hardly think it could be worth it."

Napoleon snapped his head towards his friend in alarm. "Now that's enough of _that_ kind of talk!" Napoleon ordered. Was Illya really considering what he thought he was considering? Not on Napoleon's watch! "Don't give me any of that 'woe is me, I can't live my life as a blind man' garbage! If that's your mindset then you just need to get over that right now!"

Illya's jaw lowered in shock. Considering the degree of vulnerability he had just revealed, Illya's best predictions of his friend's personality would have expected comforting and encouraging words from Napoleon; not the blatant, unsympathetic remarks he actually received. "Excuse me?" he asked, offended.

"Don't try to tell me that blindness is too debilitating, too murdering for you. Millions of people live everyday with no more sight than you have right now, and _they_ aren't beat by it. And you're telling me that those people, those _civilians_ have a higher degree of stamina than you? A trained UNCLE agent, hand picked by Mr. Waverly, one of the best of the best who has more battle scars on him than a Sherman tank? Don't even try to feed me that crap, Illya, because I won't believe it. You're trying to tell me that if you can't have your sight, then your life's not worth living at all? That doesn't make a bit of sense, Illya! This…this is an _inconvenience_. Aside from the scrapes on your eyes and the dent in your ego, you're uninjured. This isn't the type of thing to take Illya Kuryakin to the ground."

"Shut up, Napoleon! You just shut up! What makes you think-"

"That I can say these things to you?" Napoleon finished. "I can say them because I've lived my life as your partner and dearest friend for years! I know you Illya, better than I know anyone else! And at this moment, I think it's even better than you know yourself! I know what you're capable of! I know you _can_ do this! Now it's just a matter of if you _will_." Napoleon pulled against the curb and stopped the car, having reached Illya's apartment complex.

Illya was silent and didn't move an inch. He waited until he trusted himself not to explode the moment he opened his mouth. Once he was relatively controlled, he simply asked, "Have you taken me to my apartment?"

Napoleon's hands were still on the steering wheel. He stared straight at the bumper of the car parked in front of him. "Yes," he said coldly.

Illya opened the car door and climbed from the vehicle. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, he heard the driver's door open and then close. Illya turned around, "What are you doing?"

"I'm staying here tonight," Napoleon answered, walking around the front of the car to join Illya on the sidewalk.

"You weren't invited," Illya informed sternly.

"I don't care," was the reply.

Illya sighed, "Why are you doing this, Napoleon?"

Napoleon came up close to Illya with a scowl on his face, saying with intensity, "Because for the first time in my life…I don't trust you."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Okay, this was one of those chapters that was extremely difficult to write. As a writer, I was trying to get into the shoes of each character, seeing both sides of the argument and being able to convince myself that one was right and the other was wrong, and visa versa. But this was also the type of chapter that underwent many rewrites. I spent a long time going over this one because I really wanted to get it right. Certain lines were taken out; others were added in at the last second. And now I'm just confused. I can't tell what fits anymore for this chapter. I've reworked it so many times, I'm not even sure if what I ended with was good. So I would really appreciate some feedback on this. What did you think? Were the boys believable? Could you get where they were coming from? I'd really like to know.


	13. Today

**To all my fantastic readers: **I just wanted to say that you have all been so rewarding to write for. This has been by first MFU story and I was really worried about characterization and whether or not people would enjoy it. But you have all been so honest and kind in your feedback, I just needed to say thank you.

Okay, public service announcement aside, here's the next chapter!

* * *

The passing of time is a terribly unique thing. Seconds stretch into minutes; minutes, hours; and hours expand into days. Days link together quite unobtrusively, without seam or ridge, without even layers. One day simply becomes the next, with only the tick from an old clock as a cheer of welcome. Time never hastens and never waits. It marches steadily on with or without permission. No one can influence it or hinder it. It can be measured but not contained. It can control events. It drags them further away, or draws them closer to their point of occurrence. And somehow, time managed to take an event that was a matter of weeks away, and shrink it into a matter of hours away.

Today was the day.

Lying awake in his bed, Illya couldn't even tell how many hours of sleep he actually acquired during the night. By the dull throbbing in his head, Illya assumed it wasn't an abundance of rest. He stayed in bed a while longer, waiting until he could feel the heat from the sun rays as they peered through his window and warmed his chest. Once he knew it was officially morning, Illya breathed deeply in and then slung his legs over the side of his bed. He groaned sleepily and stretched his tired muscles. His right hand went instinctively to the nightstand and he grasped hold of the faithful cane. After finding his bathrobe, Illya lazily made his way out of his bedroom.

As soon as he had entered his living quarters, Illya's ears detected the sound of heavy breathing, but he was not alarmed. For almost a week now, the Russian's sofa had become the temporary residence of Napoleon Solo. Somehow, Napoleon had gotten it into his head that Illya was in danger of causing some harm to himself. It was, of course, madness. Despite the circumstances, Illya still managed to keep a level head on his shoulders. He would be a fool to do something so drastic, particularly before he had the chance to see the doctor and find out if any of this was permanent. But none of that occurred to Napoleon. He felt Illya had to be under supervision for some reason.

Admittedly, Illya wasn't too welcoming a host when Napoleon first announced his stay. But over the past few days, Illya would be a cad if he didn't recognize that the company had been pleasant. He actually had someone to talk to all day. He had companionship, and that was a treasure indeed. He wouldn't admit that Napoleon's motives for staying were founded, but at least the total experience wasn't half bad. Illya might have gone insane if he had spent the last few days of waiting by himself. But now, the wait was over. Today would decide it all.

"Wake up, Napoleon," Illya called.

Napoleon took one long breath and opened his eyes. Lifting his head off of the armrest of the couch, he looked around the room, blinking his eyes and encouraging his vision to focus. He looked at his wristwatch and then sighed, letting his head fall back onto the armrest. He smacked his lips together tiredly. "Mornin' pardner," he said, in a dramatized cowboy accent.

Illya didn't even crack a smile. It was too early to be amused. He turned and started tapping his way towards the kitchen. "Good morning," he greeted unenthusiastically.

Napoleon rose from the couch and scratched his itchy head. "So…" he yawned, slowly following his partner into the kitchen. "This is it, huh?" he observed cautiously.

"No, this is breakfast," Illya replied, silently counting through the many boxes of cereals on the counter before settling on his choice. Feeling around his cabinetry, Illya located a bowl and spoon, setting both items on the table before opening the refrigerator to retrieve the milk.

Napoleon leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen entrance, watching his partner's rehearsed movements with mild interest. "So how do you feel?" the dark-haired agent asked, careful not to sound too concerned over his friend.

Illya hesitated as he opened the carton of milk. His entire vocabulary, both of English and of Russian, began to feed hundreds of words to him, each accurate in describing the way he felt. He was excited, worried, nervous, intimidated, relieved, tired…scared. Above everything else though, he was ready. He was just ready to know. All of this time, not knowing…it was enough to drive him mad…almost. Whether for better or worse, he just wanted to get this doctor's visit over with. He just wanted to _know_.

But the stoic Russian was tired of sharing his feelings. He was tired of talking about things that couldn't be relieved through conversation. Hence, the only reply Illya gave was, "How'd you sleep?"

Luckily, Napoleon was good at taking hints. And he knew that, on this day, Illya had a right to be pensive. Napoleon didn't want to be the caring, but antagonistic friend today. Today, his role was just to be Illya's support; his encourager, his comforter and his friend.

Pushing himself from against the wall, Napoleon answered his partner's question. "Very poorly, thank you for asking," he said, beginning to make a breakfast of his own. "You want to know the first thing we're doing tomorrow morning?"

Illya remained quiet as he poured the milk into his cereal, holding his finger over the lip of the bowl so that he could feel the rise of the milk and hence avoid an overflow.

Napoleon went on, "I am taking you to the furniture store and I am personally paying for you to get a new couch, preferably one that doesn't feel like it's made from asphalt."

"It's a perfectly good sofa, Napoleon. It suits my purposes just fine. Besides, it was a bargain. I bought it for a very good price at one of those things you American's seem to like so much. What's it called…a lawn sale."

"The term is 'yard sale', and the reason it was so cheap is because it's the most uncomfortable piece of furniture ever designed. I think, after we get you a new one, we should take that _cinderblock_ and donate it to the interrogation room at headquarters. It might help to break some of the more stubborn THRUSH agents."

Illya cracked a smile. He quietly turned his attention to his bowl of cereal and let his mind wander as he ate. He only had about half a dozen spoonfuls though before he felt his bowl being dragged away from him.

"Here," Napoleon said, "eat this." He slid a plate of warm toast in front of his partner.

Illya heard the sound of jam being scraped across the rough surface of the toast. "What are you going to eat?" he asked.

Napoleon set the jellied toast back onto the plate. "It just so happens, I was craving Wheaties this morning," he answered, taking Illya's remaining cereal and sliding it to his side of the table.

Then the two agents silently ate their breakfast in peace.

* * *

"Are we there, or is this another red light?" Illya asked after the car crept to a slow stop.

"Nope," Napoleon answered, putting the car in park. "We're here."

Illya took a deep breath and tried not to let it sound shaky as he exhaled. "Good," he said quietly.

Neither agent moved. They didn't really know why they were waiting, but for some reason, they both remained silent in their seats. Cars zoomed by and the world of New York City continued to spin around them at an accelerated pace, but the partners within the vehicle simply sat and waited.

"Illya," Napoleon said quietly. Eyebrows low, his eyes stared at the dashboard, watching the sun glint off of the dusty surface. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to communicate to his friend; but he could find absolutely no words with which to express it all. "Illya," he began again, "Whatever happens…"

"I know, Napoleon…. You don't have to say it."

Napoleon sighed. He reached out and placed his hand on his partner's shoulder, squeezing it gently.

Illya's right hand came up and covered his friend's, giving it a few soft pats. He gulped once. "Yeah," his voice was just a whisper, but the meaning behind that simple word was as loud as thunder. Then, removing his hand and squaring his shoulders slightly, Illya pulled out from under Napoleon's grasp, politely shaking off the contact. "Well," he said, forcing confidence into his voice. He felt around until he grasped hold of the door handle. "Shall we do this?"

Napoleon could practically see Illya's 'brave face' as it slipped into position. Napoleon's was a little slower coming. "We shall," he answered, opening his own door and climbing out. Soon, with hand on shoulder, the partners were descending the steps leading into Del Floria's tailor shop.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I originally wrote this adjoined to the following chapter, but by the time I was through with that chapter, it was far too long. So I had to split them and this was the only good place for a chapter split. That said, I realize nothing important really happens in this chapter, but I hope you were able to enjoy it anyway. The next chapter will be up soon!


	14. When bandages are removed

**Author's Note:** I'm admitting it now before someone calls me out on it. I am a writer, not a physician. There is "medicine" involved in this chapter, and to be perfectly honest, I just made it all up. I have no idea if it's actually accurate, it's just sort of how I pictured the scene going. So to all my medically inclined readers, I apologize now. Hopefully nothing is _too_ far from plausibility. Anyway, enjoy it!

* * *

"Mr. Waverly, welcome. Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin, please come in," the chief physician of UNCLE's medical team said politely, gesturing the three men into the room. "If you would please have a seat, Mr. Kuryakin, we'll begin in just a moment." The doctor mumbled something to a nearby nurse and then both medical persons exited the room.

"Thank you, doctor," Alexander Waverly said, trying to find a place to stand in the small examination room.

"Here," Napoleon said quietly to his partner, grasping Illya by the shoulders carefully maneuvering him until he bumped into the cold examining table, prompting him to sit. Illya scooted onto the table, crinkling the sterile paper underneath him noisily. Once he was settled, he gave a vague nod of thanks to Napoleon, and the dark-haired agent turned to find a place to sit. Finding a fine stool that would do the trick, Napoleon took a seat, feeling as though his heart was about to palpitate right out of his chest. Subtly, Napoleon felt his own pulse. He reminded himself to take a few deep breaths. Overreacting wasn't going to ensure Illya's sight.

After a moment, the door opened and the doctor and nurse returned. "Alright then," he said, forcing a smile. He tried to seem perky, but everyone in the room understood the gravity of this moment. The tension was as thick as stone, and the fact that the Big Man himself was observing didn't make the poor doctor's attempt at bedside-manner any easier. "If I could just, scooch around you here," he said mildly to Napoleon, who was sitting precisely where the doctor needed to be.

Hesitating only long enough for one more nervous glance at his partner, Napoleon got up from his stool, shooting a sheepish "sorry about that" look towards Mr. Waverly. Once the doctor was seated, Napoleon took to standing directly behind him, peering over the man's shoulder in a way that was _just_ shy of looming.

"Right then," said the doctor. "How are we feeling, Mr. Kuryakin?"

Illya wetted his lips nervously. "In all honesty, doctor, I'm ready to get this over with."

The doctor chuckled, organizing some instruments on a metal tray. "I can't say that I blame you. Well, we're going to get those nasty things off in a jiff. Nurse," he said over his shoulder.

A lovely young woman seemed to appear from nowhere (a trick that made Napoleon wonder if he should have gone to medical school) and turn on a dim light behind Illya. Then she turned around. "Excuse me, sir," she said, politely ushering Mr. Waverly to the side so she could close the door. Then, turning off the overhead lights, she returned to the doctor's side.

"Alright, Mr. Kuryakin," the doctor began, "all of the lights are now off except for one, which is directly behind you. We do this because, after such a suspended time of dormancy, your eyes are going to be extremely sensitive to light. So if, when you open your eyes, everything looks dark, do not be alarmed."

Illya nodded with a subtle gulp, "I understand."

"Okay, now I'm going to start removing the bandages. When I do, I don't want you opening your eyes right away. Your skin will be sore, your lids will be sensitive, so I'm going to apply a cool press to your eyes to give your skin and muscles around the eyes time to adjust. Okay?"

Illya nodded again, "Okay."

"Alright, I'm using scissors, but don't be alarmed." Slowly, the doctor began to cut away the bandages.

The crisp sound of the scissors slicing through that wretched gauze was like music to Illya's ears. He couldn't even count the number of times he had been tempted to just tare those no good, itchy little strips right off of his face. Hearing them be cut through was a significant satisfaction for Illya.

The doctor finished cutting the gauze and then slowly removed it from Illya's face. The bandages had been there for so long that it was almost like peeling off a very old scab. It was a slow—and probably painful process—as the Russian's skin struggled to hold onto the gauze. Finally, the whole clump of dirty bandages came free from the agent's face. After that, two small cotton swabs remained. They were each about the size of a cigarette lighter and there was one covering each eye. These too, the doctor gently removed.

Napoleon grimaced as he saw his partner's full face for the first time since the accident. The skin on much of Illya's forehead and around his eyes appeared very pink and very moist. The skin around the eye sockets themselves was a light shade of maroon. At the moment, Napoleon couldn't tell exactly how much of the discoloration was from the medication on the gauze and how much of it was from the burn itself. But regardless of the cause, it looked terribly painful and Napoleon's gut instantly kicked with more pity for his partner.

To his credit, Illya went a long time before finally allowing himself to wince. "It stings," he said through clenched teeth.

The doctor discarded the bandages and swabs into a nearby trashcan. "Nurse, the press," he ordered; and soon, it was delivered to him. "Alright, now hold on," he said soothingly, applying the cool press to the Russian's face, "Just hold on…this will help."

As soon as the towel touched his face, Illya jumped slightly. His initial reaction was pain, but the longer the compress was on his face, the more soothing it felt.

After a while, the doctor said, "Now…whenever you're ready, Mr. Kuryakin…"

Illya gulped.

"We can take this off, and you can open your eyes. You just let me know when you want that to happen."

Another gulp. Illya's body was starting to tremble subtly but he struggled to stay in control of it. _'This is it,'_ he told himself, _'…this is it.'_ A few seconds later, Illya nodded. "Okay," he said, "I'm ready."

Napoleon bit his knuckle and pinched his eyes tightly shut for a brief prayer. When he heard the doctor respond with a quiet, "Okay," Napoleon opened his eyes again.

Slowly, the doctor removed the compress. "Whenever you're ready," he said.

Illya bowed his head and his hands clutched tightly at his knees. Napoleon slumped forward in an effort to see his friend's eyes. He watched as Illya struggled with great effort to get his eyes open. His lids were coated in some sort of crust which had virtually sealed them shut. Napoleon was just about to suggest they get something to wipe the eyes with first when Illya suddenly managed to pry one eye open.

Napoleon crouched lower, hoping to make eye contact with his friend. Even in the dim light, Napoleon could make out the striking blue ring of his partner's bloodshot eye. A moment later, Illya had both eyes open, but was blinking rapidly, his face twisted into a strained grimace. Napoleon held his breath. A few seconds ticked by as Illya continued to struggle to keep his eyes open. The room was completely silent. Everyone waited to know what Illya saw.

"Are…" Illya panted out, "are they opened?" he asked desperately.

Napoleon's heart dropped to the ground with an all but audible thud. _'He can't tell the difference,'_ Napoleon thought brokenly.

No one answered the Russian's question. No one could find any words to say.

"Napoleon?" Illya called, his eyes glancing aimlessly around.

Tears welled up in Napoleon's eyes. "They're opened," he choked out.

Fear struck Illya's face, but he couldn't keep his eyes open a moment longer. It hurt too much. Shutting them tightly, he tried to force the tears back down, but he couldn't…much to his chagrin. It wasn't just a matter of pride. The salty tears stung his eyes, catching them aflame with intense pain. "Ahh, Чёрт!" he cursed. "It hurts!" The more it stung, the more his eyes watered, and the more he cried, the more intense the pain became.

He frantically waved his hands around in front of him. "Where's the towel?" he demanded. Within milliseconds, the compress was back on his face and the pain was slowly subsiding.

After a few moments, the doctor finally asked the question that everyone had already answered in their heads. "Well? Could you see anything?"

Panting softly, Illya shook his head, "No…I don't know. I-I can't be sure. It just stung to have them opened."

The doctor nodded. "That's understandable," he said, "Give it a moment and you can try again if you want to."

It took a few minutes before Illya felt ready to try again, but finally, he removed the towel from his face and gulped once more.

"Ready?" the doctor asked.

Illya nodded, bowing his head again. He opened his eyes…and then quickly shut them again, cursing quietly and dabbing his lids a few times with the cool towel. He tried again, this time with more determination. He blinked hard a few times but struggled to keep his eyes open for longer periods of time.

"Well?" Napoleon asked anxiously.

Illya held his eyes open and stared downward. His breath came out in shaky huffs and he concentrated with all of his might to form a picture. "All…all I see is red!" he said with frustration.

"Red?" Napoleon exclaimed. "Well that's something, right? That's a good sign?" he asked the doctor desperately.

The doctor didn't answer. Instead, he leaned a little closer to Illya. Waving his hand in front of the Russian's face, he asked, "Is that all you see?"

Illya was now visibly trembling with frustration, his eyes never focusing on the moving hand in front of him. "Yes," he said. "Only red. Slightly orange, I guess, but…."

Illya's words would have been more comforting if he had held in his hands something red. But the truth of the matter was, other than the pink tone to Illya's skin, there wasn't a mildly red object in the room.

"Does it look like a red _filter_? A fog?" the doctor pressed.

Illya clutched the towel angrily. "It's just red! I can't describe it, really. It's just…just…" Illya's words trailed away and he heard the doctor lean back in his seat.

Realistically speaking, even that vague tone of scarlet was welcomed to Illya, who had questioned whether anything could possibly penetrate that suffocating blackness he had lived in for the past month. That single color was a feast for Illya's desperate eyes. But now that he could at least see _that_, it frustrated the agent to no end that he could not see past it.

It wasn't really a filter, and it wasn't much of a fog really either. The redness was like an enormous blanket that was stretched out before Illya. It was wide enough to cover every inch of his peripheral vision, but too close for it to appear in focus at all. It was just red. Well, red with a slight patch of pink in the middle. It was a light pink, almost white. As a matter of fact, the red itself was more of a brown tone actually. And there were two patches on the pink part that appeared brown as well.

Illya sighed hopelessly. Then his brow furrowed. _'That was odd,'_ he thought. When he sighed, it almost seemed like…Illya made himself sigh again. Wait a minute! The patch! The pink patch! It moved! Illya started moving his hands back and forth and the pink patch continued to dance around in his vision.

"What is it?" Napoleon asked, his attention trained on the peculiar movements of his partner.

Illya ignored him. He struggled and forced his eyes to concentrate. Slowly, his eyes began to focus and the pink wasn't actually pink at all. He held it close to his face. It was white! It was the towel! Illya was looking at the towel! He rubbed it with his fingers and watched the thick brown patches move around and morph into his thumbs. "This towel…" he said, almost dazed.

Within an instant, Napoleon was kneeling at his side. He placed an urgent hand on his partner's shoulder, imploring Illya to look up.

Illya lifted his eyes and began searching Napoleon's face. He blinked a few times, begging his eyes to focus and give him a clear picture. Finally, the image registered and Illya could distinctly make out the shape and familiar features of his partner's face in the dim light. Immediately, Illya's eyes locked on to his partner's and their gazes collided. His hand instinctively grasped Napoleon's shoulder the very same way he was grasping Illya's. "Napoleon," Illya identified, letting a slightly unbelieving smile tug at his lips.

Napoleon hesitated a moment, reveling in the feel of having Illya stare him in the eye again. Then, once the shock had finally settled down a few moments later, Napoleon beamed at his partner and gasped out a guffaw of laughter, tugging Illya sharply into a firm hug.

The two agents embraced and laughed and patted each other's backs heartily. It was the outcome they are always wanted, but secretly both had doubted. Now that it had actually occurred, neither one really knew what to do with themselves. They had worked so hard at preparing themselves for the worst scenario that they hadn't really planned how they would react if the worst _didn't_ happen. They didn't know what else to do than to just hug and laugh.

When they finally pulled apart, Illya received another smile and a handshake from his partner.

"Welcome back, Illya!" Napoleon said.

Still slightly stunned, Illya couldn't even respond past a smile. He turned his attention away from his partner and started peering around the room. His gaze finally landed on a form standing by the door. As his eyes focused in the dim light, Illya realized it was Mr. Waverly.

The man stepped forward with a small smile. "Congratulations, Mr. Kuryakin," he said, offering his hand.

Illya accepted the hand and shook it respectfully, "Thank you, sir." Then Illya noticed the doctor for the first time.

He slid slightly closer in his stool. "I can see your vision is starting to come along, Mr. Kuryakin," the doctor observed. "But let's just run a few quick tests to assess your recovery to date." As he spoke, the doctor pulled out an eye chart.

* * *

"Well," Napoleon said sometime later, "I'd say that went pretty well."

Illya nodded as he soaked up the beauties of New York through the car window. Even though he wore his sunglasses, he had to squint his eyes against the bright sun. But he wasn't about to start complaining now.

"The doctor says your sight is already fairly strong considering. He says that with some work, he expects your vision could make a substantial recovery."

Illya turned and looked at his partner. "Good enough for UNCLE's standards?"

Napoleon kept his eyes on the road. "Well," he shrugged with a contemplative nod, "I guess we'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it."

Nodding, Illya returned to staring out the window. The world seemed bigger, better somehow. Illya reveled in experiencing as sounds were once more coupled with sights. Nothing was too small to be noticed. A wadded up newspaper lying by a trashcan, a beam of sunlight as it reflected off a store window, the mere speed of New York as it zipped by Illya's window, all of these things thrilled the Russian inexplicably. The light seemed so much brighter when it followed a darkness. Once again, Illya wondered at the change it brought to him. The simple ability to see casts everything related to life in a completely different light.

He remembered how oppressive the blindness was, how hungry it was to consume him. It was like he was a different person when he was without his vision. Without sight, he was without hope, without purpose. It was a horrid experience, one he wouldn't even wish on his enemies. But it served to teach him so much about everything; his view on life, his world, the people who actually meant something to him...everything that really mattered. He observed things in a way that he never would have been able to with his sight as a distraction. He learned things about himself; confronted ghosts that dwelled so deep within him, he didn't even know they existed. He was challenged and humbled on countless levels and introduced to a side of himself he had never known. As cliché as it sounded, somehow through this whole affair, something was transformed at Illya's very core. It was something he could not explain readily…but the change was there.

Illya shook his head in wonder. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. If that were the case, then it was truly stunning to see how much of that soul could be revealed…through closed windows.

THE END

* * *

Oh wow. To think this whole thing got started by me randomly trying to organize an outfit with my eyes closed. (For the record, it turned out rather well. You'd be amazed how many articles of clothing are recognizable just by location and texture. I did, however, have the same problem as Illya in chapter three. I hadn't threaded my belt through the buckle perfectly.) Now I have a pretty little story to my name and a fascinating insight into Napoleon and Illya's characters. Truly, this was a joy to write. I know I took my time writing the whole thing, but I can honestly say that it was one of the most challenging and emotionally trying stories I've ever written. I wanted to write something for MFU that would help me get to know the characters more, see them in different and complicated situations and see how they might react. I don't know if I kept them (especially Illya) completely canon, but I like to pretend that I did. And I have really enjoyed writing this for you readers and hearing your great feedback. This was a lot of fun and I hope to write more UNCLE pieces in the future. Once again, thanks for being so terrific! You are the best!

God bless,

Monker


End file.
